


Ghosts

by Celticgal1041



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Birthday, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-07-27 21:25:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 38,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16227638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celticgal1041/pseuds/Celticgal1041
Summary: “There’s been too many ghosts dredged up lately, if you ask me."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AZGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AZGirl/gifts).



> This chapter marks the start of a multi-chapter story, which is a virtual birthday gift for AZGirl, who was kind enough to provide a list of prompts that inspired this story. The full list of prompts will be included at the end of this fic for anyone who's curious.
> 
> Happy, Happy Birthday AZGirl! I hope you had a day that's a special as you. Many happy returns, my friend.

"In one aspect, yes, I believe in ghosts, but we create them. We haunt ourselves."

― Laurie Halse Anderson

* * *

He let his head hang loosely from his neck, his lanky hair framing sharply pronounced cheekbones, which were a testament to the poor treatment he’d endured. Beneath his hands, he could feel the coarse dirt and small pebbles, and his fingers briefly dug into the ground, inadvertently pushing some of the grains beneath his fingernails. He was bent over, barely propped up on his knees and shaky arms, his eyes tightly closed against the latest round of dizziness that had been his nearly constant companion for God only knew how long.

 

He’d initially tried to keep track of the time, but the abuse wrought on his body had stolen that ability from him. Each hour now blended and morphed into the next, characterized only by his continuous pain and confusion. Ironically, it was the pain which he’d initially dreaded that now anchored him to reality, the only thing he could still be certain of as the ground swayed underneath him. Another wave of dizziness struck, and his battered body was unable to resist, falling sideways onto the dirt when his tremulous balance deserted him.

 

He barely registered the impact, his mind briefly welcoming the newest surge of discomfort before conscious thought quickly skittered away. Darkness taunted him on the edges of his consciousness, and he found himself slipping happily into the void, the fingers of his right hand twitching at the coarse earth one last time before blackness overwhelmed him. 

* * *

“This is takin’ too long!” Porthos’ left hand tugged the scarf from his head, followed swiftly by his right hand, which he dragged momentarily through his curls before letting both arms fall to his sides. He was dropping letters from his words again, which his friends recognized as an sign of his growing frustration. It was a feeling they unfortunately shared.

 

d’Artagnan had been missing for almost three days. The men who’d taken him were part of a group of bandits that the Musketeers been pursuing for several weeks. With their diligent efforts, the King’s guard had nearly rounded up the entire group, save for about a half-dozen men who’d decided to seek retribution by taking one of the King’s own.

 

The maddening thing was that the Gascon had been taken from underneath their own noses, so they had no one to blame but themselves. Regardless, each man had wracked his brain, trying to figure out how the young man could have been removed from their midst while they’d ridden back to town in the fading daylight with their latest batch of prisoners. The result was that the three friends were riddled with guilt, the feelings deepening more with each hour that passed and their fourth was kept from them.

 

With each minute that was added to the Gascon’s absence, Porthos grew progressively more frenetic and less comprehensible, his words coming out in a jumbled mass of slang and missing syllables that hadn’t been present since his first months with the regiment. While the large man’s words had grown less coherent, Aramis had become a contradiction of politician and priest, doing his best to ease his friends’ tempers while withdrawing for long periods each night to pray for divine intervention.

 

Though the two men’s behaviours were increasingly worrying to the people around them, it was Athos’ stormy brooding that frightened nearly everyone they crossed paths with. Any courtesies that had been ingrained in the former comte had mysteriously disappeared and been replaced with grunts, condescending and furious expressions, and the occasional physical manifestations of his overall foul mood.

 

As their group’s leader, he’d taken d’Artagnan’s kidnapping especially poorly, and had been subsisting on too much wine and too little sleep virtually from the night their friend had gone missing. While neither behaviour was overly abnormal for the man, both Porthos and Aramis had noticed that Athos was becoming increasingly emotionally volatile, and worried that they would soon find themselves unable to control the guilt-stricken man.

 

Silence had descended on the three following Porthos’ proclamation, and with a glance at Athos’ grim expression, Aramis realized that it was once more up to him to attempt to keep his friends balanced and somewhat calm. Sighing, he said, “We know they’re holding him to maintain leverage over us, so it stands to reason they’ll keep him alive.”

 

_‘For now.’_ Athos’ eyes darkened as the unwelcome thought darted through his beleaguered brain.

 

“One of the others we’ve arrested surely has the answers we seek,” the marksman continued. “It’s simply a matter of time before we have the information we need to rescue d’Artagnan.”

 

“Assuming there’ll be anythin’ left to rescue,” Porthos muttered, worrying his bottom lip a moment later as he glanced guiltily in Athos’ direction. His expression quickly turned to annoyance at the admonishing look that Aramis cast his way, and the large man half-lifted one hand in acknowledgement that he’d spoken out of turn.

 

“As I was saying,” Aramis began, his steely gaze still on Porthos as he silently dared the man to speak. “The answer lies with one of our prisoners; therefore, I suggest that we get something to eat, get a few hours’ rest, and try interrogating one of them in the morning.”

 

“What can possibly be done that we haven’t already tried,” Athos asked sullenly, clearly unable to completely abandon the hope that Aramis’ suggestion offered, while at the same time remaining unbelieving that the tactic would actually succeed.

 

With barely restrained annoyance, Aramis kept his tone even as he replied, “I’m open to suggestions if either of you have a better idea.” The was a hint of a question in his tone as he directed his gaze first to Athos and then Porthos, neither man meeting his eye in reply. Having received his answer, the marksman nodded. “It’s settled then. Let’s see if the tavern’s cook has managed any improvements in his offerings.”

 

Porthos shuddered momentarily at the memory of their last meal at the tavern, but willingly fell in behind Aramis who led the way. The tavern was their only option for food in the small village they’d been staying in, and no matter the state of their meal, he would consume it without complaint. Besides, he reminded himself as he trudged along, he’d eaten far worse and had survived. The thought offered little consolation and he steeled himself for the unappetizing fare that awaited them. 

* * *

Morning dawned both too quickly and too slowly for the three tired and anxious Musketeers. None of them spoke as they gathered doublets and weapons and exited the room they shared above the tavern. It was clear from their appearances that none of them had had a restful night, but no one commented, having accepted that this would be their reality until reunited with their fourth.

 

Porthos had spent a portion of the previous night watching over their prisoners, which currently numbered six until a contingent from the garrison returned to collect them and deliver them to Paris. While Aramis pleaded with God and Athos did his best to pickle his liver, Porthos had been an intimidating presence outside the prisoners’ cell, having leaned back against a sturdy beam as he settled down to watch.

 

At first, the men had been wary of him and had tried to engage him in conversation, which the soldier had rebuffed with stony silence. Next, they’d hurled insults at him, targeting his obvious heritage, but Porthos had stalwartly refused to react. Eventually, the men grew accustomed to his presence, returning to their normal behaviour and even conversing amongst themselves. This had been the outcome Porthos had been waiting for.

 

As he unobtrusively watched from beneath the brim of his hat, head tipped down and arms crossed over his broad chest, he began to get a sense of the dynamics present in the group. After an hour, it had become obvious that one man, Chevereau, was the weak link. The others mocked and generally belittled the man, making jokes at his expense, which the bandit attempted, but failed to brush off. Chevereau’s standing within the group would hopefully make him an easy target, and Porthos left shortly after reaching that conclusion to try and get a few hours of sleep.

 

It was this groundwork that had the three Musketeers removing Chevereau from his comrades the following morning, desperately hoping the bandit would offer some insight into the whereabouts of their missing friend. They’d brought the bandit to a quiet, unused portion of the stable after ensuring the owner was nowhere in sight. Their prisoner now stood cowering, his shoulders pressing against the gnarled wood at his back, as the three soldiers stared at him with their most intimidating expressions.

 

None of the men spoke, ratcheting up the tension that hung thickly in the air around them. Allowing the silence to stretch into a minute and then two, Porthos lifted his hands and cracked his knuckles, his message clear in the resounding pops that resulted.

 

“There’s no need for that,” Chevereau immediately blurted, sweat beading at his temples as his hands rose in supplication before his captors. “Anything you want, you just tell me.” His eyes darted to Porthos’ fisted hands before searching out Aramis’ face, the marksman currently appearing to be the most compassionate of the group. “Just tell me what you want,” he repeated, holding Aramis’ gaze.

 

If the stakes hadn’t been so high, the bandit’s reaction would have brought a smile to the marksman’s lips. Instead, he remained serious as he took a step forward, cataloguing the satisfying flinch that his approach caused. “The remaining members of your group have taken one of our men. You will tell us where to find him and provide any advice you’re able about the best way to overwhelm your misguided comrades.”

 

Chevereau’s eyes widened at the request, the man obviously balking at the idea of giving up his friends. His gaze darted to Athos, and then Porthos, finding nothing but anger and the unspoken threat of violence in the men’s stares. Licking his lips nervously, the bandit cleared his throat before replying. “They’ll kill me if I tell you.”

 

Aramis frowned at the man, waiting several heartbeats before asking, “You are certain of this?”

 

Chevereau nodded jerkily. Aramis removed the hat from his head, holding it in one hand while he ran the other one through his matted curls. His expression turned thoughtful for a moment, before giving a decisive nod and replacing his hat. “Then you are right to withhold what we ask from you.”

 

The surprise was clear on the bandit’s face as he said, “I am?” His stooped shoulders lifted marginally in obvious relief at the Musketeer’s reasonable response.

 

“Yes, of course. We,” Aramis gestured with one hand to himself and his friends. “We are the King’s Musketeers. As such, we do not go around murdering people simply because the mood strikes. Do we, gentlemen?”

 

Athos and Porthos both shook their heads. “No,” the larger man agreed. “Murder is against the law.” The expression of relief on the bandit’s face widened. “That’s why we’d ‘ave to maim him instead.” A feral grin appeared on Porthos’ face, causing Chevereau to shrink back as though believing the wall behind him offered any chance of safety.

 

Aramis was now nodding enthusiastically as he asked, “What do you suggest?” Turning to Chevereau he lowered his voice a fraction as though sharing a secret with the man. “Porthos has an extraordinary gift when it comes to hurting people without killing them. Truly, it is a wonder to behold, isn’t it Athos?”

 

The older man nodded in agreement. “I have never met anyone his equal in the dispensation of pain.”

 

Porthos cracked his knuckles once more to draw the bandit’s attention back to himself. “How ‘bout what I did that time in Orleans?”

 

Athos seemed to be contemplating the larger man’s words while Aramis visibly flinched. “Orleans, really? That seems a little extreme,” the marksman stated.

 

“But effective,” Athos countered.

 

“That man was mostly dead by the time Porthos finished with him,” Aramis protested, managing to keep one eye on Chevereau to see the effect they were having on him.

 

Porthos shrugged as he said, “There's a big difference between mostly dead and all dead. Mostly dead is slightly alive.”

 

Aramis sighed as he relented. “Fair point.” His gaze returned to the bandit as he moved out of Porthos’ way. “When he’s right, he’s right.”

 

Chevereau’s hands swung upwards once more in an attempt to keep the large Musketeer at bay. At the same time, his mouth began to move, a confusing assortment of words tumbling from his lips. “No, wait, there’s no need. I can be reasonable…and you…you don’t want to do anything you’d regret. I…I can be reasonable, too. I’ve got…I’ve got information…just, wait, I’m at your service. Please.”

 

Stepping forward and placing one hand lightly on Porthos’ chest, Athos commanded, “Speak.”

 

The information they sought spilled forth and within minutes they’d returned Chevereau to his cell and were preparing to depart. d’Artagnan’s captors had had three days with the young man, and as far as the Inseparables were concerned, that was three days too many.   

_To be continued on Thursday..._

 

**A/N:** The following line is from the movie, “The Princess Bride”: _"There's a big difference between mostly dead and all dead. Mostly dead is slightly alive.”_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a split-second, he was weightless before gravity reasserted its hold on him and dragged him to the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the lovely response to the first chapter of this story. I hope you continue to enjoy!

“Mostly dead is still somewhat alive,” Aramis repeated, shaking his head as a smile graced his lips. “Really?”

 

Porthos grinned as he replied, “Worked, didn’t it?”

 

Aramis chuckled softly. “Indeed, it did my friend, indeed it did.” He glanced in Athos’ direction, the older man riding to his left, but there was no trace of mirth in their friend’s expression. Now that they had a location, Athos was determined to reach their destination in the shortest possible time.

 

The location they’d been given was approximately a two-hour ride away, but from the way their leader was pushing his steed, Aramis was certain they would arrive sooner. There would eventually be a need to slow down and approach with stealth, but for now, the older man kept a quick pace, slowing for only as long as required for their horses to regain their breath.

 

“What’s the plan?” Porthos asked, having clearly detected Athos’ intense focus on their goal.

 

No one spoke for several long moments, Aramis and Porthos both waiting for Athos to respond, but the older man was lost in his thoughts. The mantle of leadership was one he wore relatively easily, having been groomed for responsibility almost since the day of his birth. Most of the time he minded little when others deferred to him, but when he was at a loss, the resulting burden weighed heavily. This was one of those times. ‘What’s the plan,’ he repeated Porthos’ words to himself, not having any idea of how to answer. ‘If I had a month to plan, maybe I could come up with something, but this…’ The thought trailed off with the realization that only defeat laid in that direction. Inhaling deeply, he said, “We get him back. No matter what.”

 

The marksman was tempted to roll his eyes at the complete lack of strategy in Athos’ reply, but decided on a more tactful response. “Have you given any thought as to how we might accomplish that goal?”

 

The older man was tempted to continue taking his foul mood out on his friends, but he changed his mind when he realized that they were just as worried as he was about d’Artagnan. Forcing himself to offer a more reasonable response, he admitted, “I don’t really know yet. Much depends on what we find when we arrive.”

 

In truth, his companions had suspected as much and were glad to hear Athos state what they’d already been thinking. “Works for me,” Porthos said agreeably.

 

“And me,” Aramis concurred. “I’ve always said that a soldier who isn’t adaptable to their circumstances, is no soldier at all.”

 

Quirking an eyebrow at the marksman, Porthos countered, “You’ve never said that.”

 

“Hmm,” Aramis innocently questioned. “I haven’t? Well, I’ve said it now so that should still count.” Porthos guffawed at his friend’s words and even Athos’ lips quirked slightly, the marksman having achieved his goal of lightening the mood, even if only for a short while. The silence that descended on them was far more comfortable than before as each man withdrew to contemplate how they would accomplish their mutual objective.

* * *

“This is a fine mess you’ve gotten us into.”

 

d’Artagnan struggled to raise his head up from the ground, roused to semi-awareness by the clipped words. After a first failed attempt, he managed to push himself shakily up onto one elbow, his head still hanging loosely from his neck as though lacking the strength to raise it.

 

“Call yourself a King’s Musketeer, hmm?”

 

The tone as well as the words mocked him, and a flare of anger gave d’Artagnan the energy needed to lift his chin from his chest. “Wha’?” he slurred.

 

His answer was a disgusted sniff, and he blinked owlishly to clear his vision and identify the man-shaped blob across from him.

 

“Finally decided to wake up from your nap?” The words dripped with condescension, and d’Artagnan gritted his teeth as he forced blurry eyes to focus.

 

“Richelieu?” he muttered, giving his head a shake of disbelief, before groaning at the pain of the movement.

 

“That’s Cardinal or Eminence to you, _boy_ ,” the other man sneered haughtily.

 

Swallowing back the nausea that had surged with his return to consciousness, the Gascon bravely tried to keep his eyes open as he replied. “Did they capture you, too?”

 

Deciding to overlook the Musketeer’s earlier slight, Richelieu said, “Isn’t it obvious? How else would I come to be in this place?”

 

d’Artagnan nearly nodded in agreement before remembering what a bad idea that would be. “Have they harmed you in any way?” His squinted to sharpen his vision for a moment, scanning the other man’s appearance.

 

Raising one hand to examine his fingernails, Richelieu responded, “They daren’t raise a hand against a man of God.”

 

“Good,” d’Artagnan breathed out, slumping slightly with relief. “That’s good.”

 

“How do you intend to secure our freedom?” the Cardinal pressed, obviously impatient to escape their prison.

 

The Gascon felt a wave of desolation flow over him, having been asking himself that same question since he’d been taken. How long had it been, he wondered, before pushing the thought from his mind. How long he’d been held captive mattered little; he needed to find a way to get himself and the Cardinal back to Paris. “Working on it,” he replied, even as he was beginning to lose the battle with his body to remain upright.

 

“Work faster!” Richelieu commanded, his words causing d’Artagnan to startle and his eyes to pop open once more.

 

“Bossy.” He groaned at the flash of discomfort in his side, realizing a moment later the disrespectful nature of his words and hoping the other man hadn’t heard him. When several seconds passed without comment, he felt confident that he’d spoken too softly for Richelieu to discern what he’d said.

 

“Well?” the Cardinal prompted, causing d’Artagnan to sigh and wince at the tight band that seemed to encircle his chest. Resigning himself to the inevitable, he pushed himself backwards with his heels, certain that there was a wall somewhere behind him. He let out a soft grunt when his shoulder found the wall, resting against it as he waited for the world to stop spinning around him.

 

“I’m waiting,” Richelieu announced, and the Gascon clamped his lips closed against the rude comment that threatened to spring forth. Instead, he maneuvered himself so that he could place a hand on the wall, before laboriously dragging himself to his feet.

 

As the change in gravity assailed his aching head, he found himself staggering sideways, thankfully back against the wall. He leaned against it for several long moments as he pushed the encroaching blackness away from his vision and breathed carefully through his nose to calm his rebelling stomach. He noted that the slow movement of his chest calmed the discomfort that had flared there with his change in position.

 

Once he was relatively certain that he wasn’t in immediate risk of either passing out or losing the meagre contents of his stomach, he lifted his eyes and searched again for Richelieu. When he had the man in his sights, he asked, “Can you tell me anything about where we’re being held? The number of men, their locations, anything that will help us escape?”

 

The Cardinal narrowed his eyes at the questions, initially tempted to offer another scathing remark about the other man’s skills, but reconsidering a moment later given their current reliance upon one another. “Four, maybe five men,” he said offhandedly. “I was brought here under cover of darkness, so I can’t really say much about our location. I assume there must be another building nearby that houses our captors.”

 

d’Artagnan gave a slow nod, pleased to find that the pain in his head didn’t immediately spike in response. “Makes sense,” he replied. “We’d arrested all but about a half-dozen of them.”

 

“Not surprising that this has been caused by Musketeer incompetence,” the Cardinal replied.

 

Biting his tongue against the retort that sprang to mind, d’Artagnan asked, “Have you any type of weapon?”

 

“Someone of my standing has no need to arm himself,” Richelieu stated arrogantly. Seconds passed in silence before the man continued. “Besides, they were exceptionally proficient in their search and confiscated everything they perceived as threatening to their wellbeing.”

 

The Gascon worried his bottom lip at the news. He was very familiar with their captors’ proficiency in finding all manner of weapon, and remembered well the men’s thorough search of his clothes and saddlebags.

 

Squinting in an effort to focus his vision once more, d’Artagnan’s eyes followed the line of the walls around him until they landed on the door. It hadn’t changed any from the last time he’d considered it and still stood firmly in the doorway, blocking all outside light and sound. He vaguely remembered having tried to open it, without success, and figured he might as well waste his time that way as any other since Richelieu didn’t seem to have any better ideas.

 

Groaning, he pushed himself away from the wall where he’d slumped and began the laborious trek towards the door. The distance was only seven or eight feet, but to his weakened body, it felt much farther. He kept one hand on the wall as he walked, opting to take the route around the perimeter of the room rather than directly across it, distrustful of his wavering balance and inconsistent vision.

 

He sighed in relief when he reached his objective, one hand coming up to brace his sore flank as the other continued to aid his balance. Without conscious thought, he slumped forwards against the wooden door, his eyes closing of their own accord as he battled fatigue and mistreatment.

 

“Wouldn’t your plan have a higher chance of success if you attempted to open the door rather than napping against it?” The Cardinal’s words were clipped and dripped with condescension, but d’Artagnan couldn’t argue with their sentiment.

 

With effort, he forced himself to straighten, retaining his balance by keeping one hand on the door. The other hand moved to the door’s handle, and he found himself holding his breath as he pressed down, already preparing himself for the disappoint of finding it locked. The handle moved downwards and clicked, the door swinging easily outwards.

 

d’Artagnan’s shock almost had him falling forward as his support swung away from him. At the last moment, before his balance would have been lost, he managed to shake himself from the surprise of his discovery and pull the door back towards himself.

 

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Richelieu asked, the man having moved closer almost immediately. “We need to go now before someone comes back and we find ourselves trapped again.”

 

The Gascon’s befuddled brain was churning, unable to reconcile the unlocked door with his situation. The door had been locked – he was certain of it. His captors had enjoyed stopping by to torment him, and they’d locked the door firmly behind themselves each time they’d left. He was certain of it…wasn’t he?

 

“Good God, man, what are you waiting for?” the Cardinal hissed, impatience rolling from him in waves.

 

d’Artagnan could feel his muscles trembling as his finite energy slowly dissipated. If he was going to try to escape, it would have to be soon. ‘But, why?’ his mind argued. ‘Why would the door be unlocked now?’ Unaware that he was responding to himself, he muttered aloud, “Trap.”

 

“You think it’s a trap?” Richelieu questioned, still waiting for the Musketeer to move. “So, what if it is? Do you honestly have anything to lose at this point?”

 

The throbbing in d’Artagnan’s skull escalated, bringing with it another wave of dizziness. As much as the Cardinal annoyed him, the truth of the man’s words could not be refuted. This might be his one and only chance to be free of his captors, and for Richelieu’s sake, it was a chance he needed to take.

 

“Fine,” the Gascon said, throwing a glance over his shoulder somewhere in the direction of his charge. “Follow me and stay close.” He received a non-committal grunt in reply, which he chose to take as agreement.

 

Pushing the door open once more, he followed it out, moving slowly until he could peer to one side. The view he was met with wavered and refused to focus, but from what he could discern, he was reasonably certain that no danger awaited him on that side. Pressing the door out farther, he repeated his slow observation on the other side of the wooden barrier, relatively comfortable that there was no one around to see them escape.

 

“Come on,” he said lowly, trusting that the Cardinal would follow. He clung to the side of the building they’d just exited, keeping one wall at his back as they moved. When they ran out of wall, he paused, scanning the area again before identifying a copse of trees, and deciding they would be his new objective.

 

d’Artagnan’s steps were heavy and uncoordinated, and he was bent nearly in half by the time he crashed into one of the trees he’d only barely identified. His arms came up automatically to grip the trunk as he swayed and held on to remain on his feet.

 

“We’re too close,” Richelieu protested, his face reflecting his panicked state. “We must head farther into the trees where they won’t be able to see us.”

 

The Gascon gave a weak nod, his forehead scraping against the bark of the tree where it rested. With a force of will, he lifted his head and released his hold on the tree, staggering to one side to go around it. Each step seemed harder than the last, but he forced his feet to continue moving, Richelieu’s voice echoing in his head as the man insisted they keep going.

 

d’Artagnan had no idea where they were going but agreed that any distance between themselves and their captors was to be cherished, so he pushed his failing body to press on. Soon, he’d lost himself in the repetitive motion, unaware of his stumbling gait that more often than not had him bouncing off trees as he continued forward. His mind had detached itself from his body, no longer able to function while dealing with his physical ills.

 

So it was that his foot found open air between one step and the next, his brain unable to register the lack of ground beneath it before his weight shifted forward to fall into nothingness. For a split-second, he was weightless before gravity reasserted its hold on him and dragged him to the ground. The impact snapped his teeth together and rattled his fragile skull. It was too much for a body that had already endured so much, and he fell into darkness before his body had even settled where it had fallen.

_To be continued on Sunday..._

* * *

 

**A/N:** The following line is from the movie, “The Princess Bride”: _‘If I had a month to plan, maybe I could come up with something, but this…’_


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The emptiness that greeted him nearly took his breath away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your comments and kudos. I hope you continue to enjoy!

Once they were certain they were close to their destination, they veered from the trail that had led them to the bandits’ location and completed the rest of their journey on foot, making their way through the undergrowth that shrouded both sides of the path. Their judgement had been sound and within 10 minutes, they arrived at a small clearing that held two buildings, one larger than the other.

 

By unspoken agreement, the three men settled down in the brush to wait and observe, hoping for some signs of life that would help them create even the merest threads of a plan. For once, luck smiled on them, and within minutes of their arrival, a man emerged from the larger dwelling. They watched the man as he made his way to the smaller building, unable to see the door from their position.

 

“If they’re holding him here, there’s a good chance he’s in there,” Aramis whispered, putting into words the men’s thoughts about d’Artagnan’s probable location. Porthos nodded while Athos remained still, his eyes never moving from the bandit’s position, even once he’d disappeared around the corner and out of sight.

 

“Wait for ‘im to leave and then go spring d’Artagnan?” Porthos asked, his gaze also fixed on the spot where the bandit would reappear.

 

Before either of his friends could respond, they were startled to see the bandit running back to the larger building, the man already calling out to his comrades as he crossed the open space.

 

“What the hell?” Porthos muttered under his breath as all three men tensed in anticipation.

 

“He’s gone!” The bandit’s words reached the Musketeers’ ears and had Aramis and Porthos cursing softly.

 

“Move, now!” Athos ordered brusquely, already rising and reaching for his pistol.

 

Not thrilled with their lack of planning, but unwilling to let the older man charge into danger alone, Aramis and Porthos followed suit. They exited the scrub brush that had hidden them in behind the former comte, fanning out to either side once they were out in the open. As they moved quickly to approach the house, they spread further apart, Athos and Porthos still aiming for the larger building, while Aramis began to veer towards the smaller one.

 

The marksman arrived at his destination first, skidding to a controlled stop at the edge of the open door. Glancing quickly over his shoulder, he watched Athos and Porthos slow their steps as they cautiously approached from opposite sides of the entranceway to the house, pressing their bodies back against the exterior walls.

 

With his pistol outstretched in front of him, Aramis swung his body to face the door, checking quickly for any threats before stepping inside. The emptiness that greeted him nearly took his breath away, having been certain their search for d’Artagnan was about to come to an end. Sharp eyes swiftly took in the signs of recent habitation: a bucket in one corner, partly full; blood spatter that dotted the floor and back wall; and the body-shaped indentation on the dirt floor near the centre of the room, which was only inches away from a puddle of sickness. The signs were both hopeful and disheartening at the same time.

 

Shouting outside drew his attention back to more immediate concerns, and with a last disgusted look at the empty room, he turned on his heel to rejoin his friends. One man’s voice carried above all the rest, screaming orders at the others, “Stay where you are! Fight!” From the panicked tone, it was apparent that the bandits had other plans.

 

Aramis scanned the scene, and realized that he hadn’t been spotted yet, offering him an advantage. Porthos had just taken aim at a man running away from the house, the bandit ignoring the Musketeer’s order to stop. Athos was still to one side of the door, having just used the butt of his pistol to render another fleeing man unconscious.

 

Aramis counted automatically, adjusting the number of opponents to four on the assumption that their information of a half-dozen men was accurate. Moving stealthily, he shifted position until he was close enough to fire, loosing his bullet at a bandit who’d been peering through a window in an effort to get the drop on the two closest Musketeers. The dead man’s body falling backwards from the window sill to the interior of the house seemed to be the impetus for the others to run for their lives. Two men exited immediately, followed seconds later by two more, and Aramis swore under his breath at the extra man.

 

Where some might believe there was safety in numbers, the Musketeers’ prey instead seemed determined to create as much confusion as possible, demonstrating a motto of ‘every man for himself’ as each took off in a different direction. The sight of four grown men chaotically running away might have been amusing if the stakes weren’t so high; as things stood, the bandits’ frenetic and uncoordinated activity simply made things harder for the Inseparables who desperately needed to capture at least one man so they might question him.

 

The three Musketeers shared a quick glance before beginning their pursuit of the bandits. Having with him an additional loaded pistol, Aramis chose to follow the two men who had run off in the general direction of the road, while Porthos and Athos entered the woods after the other two. As he ran, the marksman pulled his weapon from his belt, preparing to fire as soon as he’d closed the gap between himself and his target. He purposefully aimed at the faster of the two men, hoping to stop him from escaping so he could focus his attention on the closer of the two.

 

Skidding to a stop, his arm already outstretched, he took a moment to confirm his aim before squeezing the trigger. His target let out a sound of pain before his momentum had him tripping and falling to the ground. Satisfied that the man had been dealt with, Aramis turned his attention to second bandit, pushing himself faster until he was within reach of the man. With both arms outstretched, he leaped forward, bringing the bandit to the ground with an impressive tackle.

 

The air was momentarily expelled from both men’s lungs from the strength of their impact with the ground, but Aramis didn’t wait to regain his breath before securing his advantage. Lifting himself up just enough, he brought the butt of his spent pistol down on the bandit’s temple, making him a compliant prisoner until consciousness returned.

 

Allowing himself to drop to the ground next to the insensate man, Aramis took a moment to catch his breath. One hand reached into an inner pocket to withdraw a kerchief which he used to wipe the sweat from his brow. The chase had winded him and made his clothes stick uncomfortably, leaving him wishing for nothing more than a refreshing drink while he let the breeze cool his slick skin. Unfortunately, that was not to be, and he let out a resigned sigh as he dragged himself to his feet. There was still work to be done before any thoughts of relaxation could be entertained. Adjusting the hat on his head, he stuck his pistol back into his belt, moving forward to check on the man he’d shot. 

* * *

Something was brushing up against his face, and the tickling was growing more and more irritating, pulling him from a slumber that he didn’t want to leave. He fumbled with a heavy hand, managing to somehow bring it up to his nose to brush the annoyance away. His energy deserting him after that simple act, he let his arm drop next to his head, despite its uncomfortable positioning.

 

As he lay there, drifting between twilight and awareness, he registered the feeling of something damp beneath his cheek. Focusing on the sensation, he catalogued the same feeling beneath the fingers of his hand and wondered at the oddness of it. Drawing a deeper breath in preparation to sigh, his chest hitched as a sharp pain lanced up his right side. His face mirrored his discomfort, his eyes scrunching up even while closed as he waited for the ache to end. Several seconds later, the pain in his flank eased, but some part of his mind recognized that it would flare anew with any sudden or ill-advised movement.

 

That realization awoke another part of his mind, and he began to wonder what exactly was causing him to hurt in the first place. The thought meandered through half-formed memories of foul-smelling, ill-tempered men, confusion, and a strange conversation with the Cardinal. His brain settled on the last item as he struggled to recall what had transpired and when. Richelieu! The memory of the man’s presence and their escape was accompanied by a series of disjointed images, causing his eyes to pop open of their own accord.

 

The view that greeted him was a disconcerting mix of greens and browns, the shapes appearing to be of varying sizes, but none clear enough that he could discern their identity. He blinked in an effort to focus his bleary eyes, realizing a moment later that he could only see out of one eye. As his brain processed that fact, his body released a burst of adrenaline, giving him the strength to finally move.

 

Shifting the hand that lay hear his head, he placed it flat on the ground to gain some leverage. Lifting his head slightly, he rolled towards his braced arm, attempting to lever himself up to a more vertical position. The arm shook beneath him, and he moved his other limb forward to spread his weight across both arms. As soon as he’d planted his other hand on the ground, he found himself hissing in pain and collapsing to the ground, trapping the sore limb beneath his body.

 

“Ow,” he groaned, surprised by the hoarseness of his voice. He lay on the ground for over a minute as he endured wave after wave of pain from his injured arm. When he felt ready to try again, he once more rolled towards the support of his left arm, this time ensuring he placed no pressure on the right one. Somehow, he managed to get his knees under him, and ended up kneeling, braced on his good arm, while the other was tucked tightly against his chest.

 

“Christ,” he ground out through gritted teeth as his aching head dipped towards his chest. The earlier twinges that had heralded discomfort had surged and morphed into unrelenting agony, centred around his right side, arm, and head. Needing some relief from the pain, he stayed still for several minutes, forcing himself to breathe slowly and shallowly until the fire that set his nerves alight receded.

 

When the pain finally eased, he released a last, long exhale before lifting his head and opening his eyes. He was gratified when the throbbing in his head didn’t spike and the scenery around him slowly came into sharper focus. Deciding to press his luck, he sluggishly shifted his weight backwards until he was sitting rather than kneeling. Blinking slowly, he looked around.

 

While he was happy to be able to identify some of his surroundings, what he saw left him confused. He found himself encircled by trees and other greenery, which followed the sharp incline of the ground to his left and continued to drop off to his right. He was currently seated on a plateau of sorts, and he shivered with the realization that he’d been very lucky that he hadn’t ended up further down. The thought triggered a memory of falling, and he shuddered again, comprehending that he’d fallen earlier, which had resulted in his current predicament.

 

Racking his brain, he struggled to remember the events leading up to his tumble. His brain conjured images of running and stumbling, and the strong need to protect. Richelieu! He’d forgotten about the man again, and now searched the area around him for any indications of the man’s presence. “Cardinal,” he called lowly, recalling the danger they’d escaped and mindful that he needed to be careful about announcing his presence. “Cardinal,” he called a second time, slightly louder, sighing carefully in frustration when he didn’t receive a response.

 

His options now were limited, and all began with the need to drag his aching body upright. Gritting his teeth against the pain he knew that movement would bring, he carefully shifted to get his legs beneath him. With effort, he lurched to his feet and promptly stumbled sideways and staggered against a tree. His breathing came in rapid gasps as his body struggled to balance the pain of inhaling and exhaling with his lungs’ relentless need for air.

 

When his breathing finally slowed, and the darkness receded from the edges of his vision, he surveyed his surroundings. The incline to his left was steep and littered with foliage and deadfall, making a difficult climb that much harder. The right sloped more gently downwards, but he had no idea where he would end up, that direction potentially leading him further away from his destination. He snorted at the thought, realizing that he had no actual destination in mind, other than his goal of finding the Cardinal. Deciding that a man of Richelieu’s advanced years was unlikely to be climbing anywhere, he turned to the right, swaying unsteadily as he took the first step that would hopefully lead him to his objective.

_To be continued on Thursday..._

* * *

**A/N:** The following line is from the movie, “The Princess Bride”: _“Stay where you are! Fight!”  (_ Gatekeeper to the men guarding the entrance to the castle.)

Thank you to AZGirl for spotting and correcting my typos.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He glanced over his shoulder at the still insensate prisoner, torn between his responsibility to watch over the man and his need to go search for his brother.

Porthos growled as he forced his legs to run faster. He hated running. Give him a worthy opponent, or even an unworthy one for that matter, but one who at least held his ground and fought, and he was a happy man. The idea of turning tail and running, ever, was a sign of dishonour – a trait that was demonstrated far too frequently in their line of work. Swallowing a sigh in exchange for gulping a much-needed breath, he glanced briefly sideways where he caught sight of Athos chasing his own prey.

 

The bandits had split up as they’d entered the forest but hadn’t drifted so far apart that Porthos and Athos were unable to catch the occasional glimpse of each other as they pursued their quarry. The men they chased weren’t all that fast, but the Musketeers were hampered by the swords swinging at their hips and the uneven, often treacherous ground, which was littered with twigs and roots that tugged at their boots. Fortunately for the bandits, both of the King’s guards had already expended their bullets, leaving a foot chase as the only option. Despite the rough ground and branches reaching for their uniforms, Porthos and Athos had made steady progress and were close to capturing the men.

 

With one final push, Porthos reached for the bandit in front of him, snagging a chunk of the man’s shirt. He let out of sound of victory as the bandit came to a sudden stop in his hold. Adding a second hand to secure his prisoner, his gaze swept sideways to gauge Athos’ progress, only to have the breath sucked from his lungs as he watched the older man suddenly disappear from view. He waited for several seconds, holding onto the now writhing man in his grasp as his eyes swept over the spot where Athos had stood only moments earlier.

 

His prisoner’s attempts to free himself escalated, forcing Porthos’ attention back to the man. “Quiet down!” the large Musketeer roared to no avail. Desperate to see what had happened to Athos, and not wanting to waste time securing the man, he pulled his arm back and delivered a massive blow to the bandit’s jaw. As he’d hoped, the man’s eyes immediately rolled back in his head as he crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

 

With a soft grunt of satisfaction, Porthos moved quickly to the last place he’d seen the older man, catching himself at the last moment when the edge of his boot began to slip forward. “What the hell?” Porthos mumbled to himself as he moved back slightly before toeing away the brush in front of him. The dense foliage grew over the edge of a precipice where the ground dropped away sharply only a few inches ahead. Collapsing to his knees, the large man peered over the side, attempting to discover the extent of the drop-off.

 

He sucked in a surprised breath at the sight that greeted him. It was not simply a matter of the ground falling away, but that he now knelt at the edge of a small canyon, the bottom of which lay at least two hundred feet below him. The walls of the ravine were covered in scrub and small trees before eventually giving way to a fast-moving stream that cut a path across the valley’s bottom. Porthos guessed that the water would likely be much shallower come summertime, but the banks of the stream were currently swollen and close to overflowing with the spring runoff from the mountains.

 

Sighing, he sank back onto his heels, dragging a trembling hand across his face; neither Athos nor the bandit he’d been chasing were anywhere in sight. He glanced over his shoulder at the still insensate prisoner, torn between his responsibility to watch over the man and his need to go search for his brother. He supposed he could bind the bandit so he could commence his search, but he had nothing but the clothes he wore to accomplish the task. Alternatively, he could make his way back to the clearing and hope that Aramis was back, but that would waste valuable time Athos might not have.

 

“Arrgh,” he groaned, as he shook his head. He desperately needed to be in two places at once. Gritting his teeth, he pushed to his feet, having reached a decision with which he was completely dissatisfied. He would rouse his prisoner and take him back to the house, locking him into a room if needed. Then, he would return to look for Athos, praying that the man had somehow survived the fall and hadn’t ended up in the water below. Positioning himself next to the unconscious bandit, he began the process of waking the man up, laying a none-too-gentle slap on his cheek.

* * *

d’Artagnan’s steps were clumsy and hesitant, the roots and brush that littered the forest floor tripping him frequently to bring him crashing abruptly to the ground. He groaned as he rolled over after yet another stumble, this one having brought him to his knees before faceplanting when his trembling arms had refused to support him.

 

Lying on his back, he panted through the pain that lanced through his head and chest, repeating a familiar mantra that would, hopefully, see him back on his feet. “Musketeers don’t give up. You are a Musketeer.” The words were mumbled softly under his breath, the Gascon no longer even thinking consciously about the act.

 

“Are you certain?” Richelieu’s words broke through d’Artagnan’s misery, causing the young man to abruptly lift his head to look for the other man. Pain spiked anew at the quick movement, and he found himself dropping his head back onto the leaf-covered ground, praying that the latest round of incessant throbbing would soon abate.

 

Forcing his breathing to slow, d’Artagnan titled his head to one side until he could see the Cardinal, the man still appearing to be hale and whole. “What?” he asked. It was possibly not his most eloquent response, but it was all that he was currently capable of.

 

Richelieu responded with an eye roll as he repeated his earlier question. “Are you certain that Musketeers don’t give up?” He allowed a heartbeat of silence before continuing. “From where I’m standing, your lack of action seems to contradict that claim. Or perhaps it’s simply that you should never have received a commission in the first place?” His words dripped with condescension, a feeling that was mirrored by his expression.  

 

d’Artagnan blinked his eyes several times, still having difficulty focusing. When his vision cleared as much as it was likely to, he hardened his features as he said, “You mocked me once. Never do it again!” He had to stop to drag in another breath before continuing. “You know nothing of the Musketeers or what it takes to become one.” He broke off as he realized he had nothing more to say that wouldn’t have his head removed from his shoulders. Frustrated, he clamped his mouth closed, waiting to see what his disrespectful words would bring.

 

The Cardinal looked completely unperturbed by the Gascon’s outburst, offering a challenge rather than a rebuke. “Then prove me wrong and get up.”  

 

The Gascon closed his eyes and groaned lightly at the taunt, realizing that Richelieu had a point and lying around on the ground would solve nothing. He took several steadying breaths, expanding his ribcage beyond what was comfortable, before reopening his eyes and beginning the tortuous task of regaining his feet. His progress was slow and ungainly, but with the help of a nearby tree, he eventually managed it.

 

“What are you smiling about? Surely not that you’ve finally accomplished something every two-year old has mastered.” Richelieu’s tone was just as demeaning as earlier, but d’Artagnan didn’t let the man dampen his mood, elated that he’d managed what had been a monumental feat in his current condition. When it became apparent that the Gascon wasn’t going to reply, the Cardinal extended a hand forward as he asked, “Shall we?” Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and began walking in the direction he’d indicated.

 

Swallowing a sound of pain as his sore and weary body voiced its protest, d’Artagnan fell into step a few feet behind the man, a small voice in his head reminding him that he should be in the lead. Seeing Richelieu widen the gap between them, he silenced the voice, accepting that his role for now would be to watch the other man’s back.

* * *

Aramis gave the bandit another push, encouraging him to pick up his pace as they returned to the clearing. The second man had not been as lucky as this one and had succumbed to the marksman’s bullet. While Aramis never enjoyed taking another’s life, he was also relieved to only have to deal with one prisoner instead of two, especially since he had no idea of his friends’ fates.

 

Porthos and Athos had headed in the opposite direction in pursuit of their prey, and the marksman found himself increasingly anxious as he trekked back to, hopefully, meet up with the men. It was not uncommon for the three to have to separate during a mission, but the unexpected kidnapping of their fourth had thrown them off-balance, leaving them struggling to regain the rhythm that otherwise came naturally to each of them. The marksman recognized that the issue would be resolved as soon as they had reclaimed d’Artagnan, but in the meantime, it was tiresome to have to be working so hard at something that was normally second nature.

 

Swallowing a sigh of relief as the clearing finally came into view, Aramis gave his prisoner another push, this time partly as a warning to not attempt anything once they’d arrived at their destination. The marksman was very familiar with the boldness that could emerge once a person was back in familiar surroundings, and he needed the bandit to remain docile and cooperative.

 

He began scanning the area as soon as they were close enough, holding back an initial flare of concern when he couldn’t spot either of his friends. Needing the freedom to be able to look around without fear of being attacked, he turned his prisoner towards the smaller building, deciding to lock the man up while he did what was needed.

 

As soon as he’d closed the door and slid the bolt home to ensure it couldn’t be opened, he turned and ran an appraising eye over the entire area. There was no sign of life, and he swallowed another sigh, this time of irritation, as he acknowledged that he would need to check on the downed bandits to confirm their status before doing anything else. Swiftly, he moved between the men, confirming that the two who’d been shot earlier had been permanently dealt with.

 

Turning slowly in place, he scanned his surroundings for the third man, recalling Athos’ pistol strike bringing the bandit to the ground. Frowning, he came to the conclusion that the man was gone, clearly having regained consciousness at some point and making his escape. “Merde,” he cursed softly as his hopes of catching the remaining members of the group faded away. “Nothing to be done about it now,” he muttered to himself, deciding that his time was best spent searching for his friends.

 

He’d taken only a few steps into the trees when he spotted Porthos’ approaching form, his lips automatically curling up into a smile. Slightly ahead, and to the large man’s right, walked another of the bandits, the man being kept in check by Porthos’ large hand gripping his collar.

 

When Aramis looked over the broad man’s shoulder, expecting, but not seeing Athos, his features morphed quickly to worry once more. “Porthos,” Aramis greeted, “all is well?” The expression on the large man’s face was answer enough and pulled another soft curse from the marksman. “What happened?”

 

Porthos gave the man in his hold a combination shove and shake as he replied, “They happened.” He closed the remaining distance between them and then stopped, his grip never faltering. “I’ll tell you everything, but first, we need to do somethin’ with ‘im.”

 

Aramis nodded, barely keeping his impatience in check as he said, “Follow me.” He led the way back to the small building, Porthos quickly understanding what the marksman was thinking. Pounding on the door to get the other prisoner’s attention, the marksman announced, “Stand back. I’m opening the door and have my pistol aimed directly at it.” He hoped the man wouldn’t realize that he hadn’t yet had a chance to reload as he waited a few seconds before putting his words into action. Opening the door, he nodded in satisfaction when he spotted the bandit several feet from the doorway.

 

Porthos stepped forward and pushed his prisoner inside before shutting the men once more into the locked space. “I’ve been patient long enough,” Aramis said. “Tell me.”

 

The large man ran one hand across his face, collecting his thoughts as he tugged at his beard. Letting the hand drop, he replied, “Athos fell.” Aramis’ eyes grew huge, and Porthos realized that he needed to say more. “There was a hidden drop and he followed the man he was chasing. I wanted to search…” He trailed off, his gaze shifting to the bandits’ prison.

 

Aramis nodded in understanding, compassion coloring his words. “But you couldn’t until your man was secured. We best get going then. Athos is likely already on his way back here and will be upset that we’ve left him alone for so long.” He tried to sound upbeat, but the comment did little to ease the men’s fears. Wordlessly, they turned back in the direction of the trees, the marksman falling in behind his friend as he prayed they would find Athos alive and well at their destination.

_To be continued on Sunday..._

* * *

**A/N:** The following line is from the movie, “The Princess Bride”: _“You mocked me once. Never do it again!”_

Thank you to AZGirl for spotting and correcting my typos, and thanks to everyone for reading. I'd love to hear your thoughts if you're so inclined.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Giroux shakily exhaled in relief, praying that she hadn’t just killed the man she’d been trying to help.

Athos took a shuddering breath as he came back to himself, the brief jolt of adrenaline that had marked his waking helping to clear the fog from his head. As he focused on the simple act of drawing air into his lungs, he reached for the fractured pieces of memory in his mind, struggling to recall what had led to his current situation.

He remembered running through the trees, the branches whipping by so quickly at times that their details had been blurred. He hadn't been alone, and a flash of Porthos' strong form flying alongside him appeared in his head. They'd been chasing someone – no, two someones – and he'd been close to catching his man. But then his recollection turned fuzzy.

There was the terrifying feeling of falling as the earth had disappeared from beneath his feet. Worse, yet, was the feeling of landing, hard, jarring his teeth and bones. At the memory, his limbs jerked, and he winced as the movement awakened new protests from his body. He'd been terrified as he'd careened wildly against unyielding objects, some of them reaching and tearing at his clothes and skin, while others eventually gave way to his tumbling form. His terror had only increased when he'd struck water, his body and head immediately going under.

His limbs had struck out in an uncoordinated fashion, still stunned by his fall and the resulting hurts he'd collected. Miraculously, his flailing had brought his head above water where he'd gulped in an enormous breath of air before being pulled under once more. The experience of rising above the water, only to be submerged once more repeated itself several times until the water's flow slackened enough that he'd managed to stay above its surface.

Rescue had come quite unexpectedly, and due to no skill of his own, as he'd been gradually pushed closer to the bank and eventually deposited in a shallow section at a bend in the stream. He'd been surprised to find himself no longer propelled by the strong current and had staggered the remaining steps out of the water. As soon as he was on dry land, he'd collapsed, and Athos could not be certain he hadn't passed out for a time.

He'd awoken a short time ago, tired, in pain, and trying to remember what had happened. The resulting answer, once he'd put things together, didn't make him feel much better. He shivered, groaning at the pain that spiked in his right leg. Reaching down he sought out the source of his discomfort, pulling his hand back abruptly when the action caused fire to shoot upwards through his leg and hip.

He spent several seconds panting as he tried to cope with the raw ache in his leg. When it had receded enough that he no longer believed someone was trying to cut the limb from his body, he opened his eyes and carefully lifted himself up on one elbow. The sight that met him had him leaning further sideways as he retched helplessly for more than a minute.

By the time his stomach had finished rebelling, Athos felt cold and sweaty, and his entire body was trembling badly. Shakily, he laid back onto the ground, considering the problem that faced him. There was a piece of wood in his leg. From watching Aramis tend to the injured, he knew that it was a bad idea to remove it, since the resulting wound could cause him to bleed to death.

Mentally, he went through the items he carried on his person, soon realizing he had nothing with which to close the wound. Groaning long and loud, he again cursed the bandits who had taken d'Artagnan, and which had led him to his current predicament. The thought reminded him of the Gascon's absence from the buildings they'd raided, and he hit the ground at his side with a clenched fist, bemoaning the fact that they hadn't even successfully located their friend.

"Stop feeling sorry for yourself," he muttered. Assuming that Porthos was alright, the man would most certainly be searching for him, although his task would be doubly difficult since there was no way of knowing how far he'd travelled while in the water's grip. It meant that Athos would need to at least make an effort to make things easier, which would mean getting upright and somewhat mobile, an idea that he was already dreading.

With effort, he pushed himself back onto one arm, gritting his teeth as he gently probed at the wound with his fingers. Even the slightest touch set his nerves alight with agony and made him dizzy with pain, leaving him wondering how he'd ever manage to walk on his injured leg.

With much grunting and panting, he eventually managed to drag himself backwards to a large boulder where he slumped for several minutes to recover some small measure of strength. Next, he removed his weapons belt and doublet, before stripping off his sodden shirt, from which he ripped several pieces of cloth. The makeshift bandages were wrapped around his thigh, stemming the sluggish bleeding and holding steady the piece of wood that had impaled him. The task took all his remaining strength and left him shivering from the severity of his pain.

He again allowed himself a few minutes of rest before redressing and then resolutely forcing himself to begin the process of standing. With the help of the boulder at his back, he managed to get upright, although he kept his weight on his uninjured left leg. Scanning the area, he spotted several trees that seemed close enough for him to reach, and he set the closest one as his first goal.

As he transferred his weight to his right leg, several things happened almost simultaneously. First, agony flared along the entire length of the injured limb, spiking upwards into his hip and down to his toes. Second, his vision darkened dangerously, even as he was starting to bend over to grip his thigh above the wound. Third, his leg collapsed beneath him, dropping him to the ground so suddenly that he wondered afterwards if he'd momentarily blacked out from the pain.

Carefully, he straightened out his body and rolled onto his back. "Damnit," he squeezed out through gritted teeth, pressing his head and back against the packed dirt as he clenched his fists in frustration and pain. When he'd recovered enough that he felt he could move, he raised himself up to examine his leg, groaning long and loud at the amount of blood that now soaked his bandages. Clearly, he'd jarred his injury when he'd fallen. "Lucky you didn't crack your fool head open on that rock when you fell," he muttered.

"Lucky, indeed," a female voice remarked.

The words startled Athos and had him snapping his head towards the speaker. Blinking hard, he asked hesitantly, "Who are you?" He waited with bated breath for an answer, wondering if the woman was really there or simply a figment of his pain-fueled imagination.

The woman offered a small smile as she neared, apparently having assessed the man in front of her to be of no threat. "Madame Giroux," she replied, stepping closer before kneeling at his side. "Catherine."

"Catherine," Athos repeated softly, taking in her appearance. The women's features were pleasant, though unremarkable, but the expression she wore was of compassion. She was clothed for the outdoors and wore sturdy boots beneath her hitched skirt, while thick leggings covered her legs.

Her voice broke him from his examination as she extended a tentative hand towards his leg. "May I?"

He found himself nodding even before he'd fully comprehended her request, letting his head drop heavily back to the ground a moment later as fire ignited at her touch. "I'm sorry," she murmured, but didn't stop. Athos focused on quieting his sounds of pain and keeping still, fighting his body's urge to move away.

"Monsieur? Are you with me?"

Athos opened eyes he didn't remember closing and looked up at the woman's concerned face. "This piece of wood, it needs to come out," she informed him.

Shaking his head lazily, Athos replied, "No." His voice was weak and barely audible. Swallowing, he tried again. "It can't. I've nothing to stop the bleeding."

Catherine frowned for several long seconds before responding. "Monsieur," she began.

"Athos," he interrupted, realizing belatedly that he'd never shared his name.

The woman offered a slight smile as she continued. "Athos, there is no way that you'll be able to walk until this is dealt with."

Struggling to gather his thoughts, the former comte asked, "Is there a village nearby?"

Catherine seemed apologetic as she replied, "There is nothing nearby…not for miles." Athos' face fell at the news. "Fear not, Monsieur…Athos," she corrected herself. "I believe I have a way of containing the bleeding."

He waited for her to continue, growing anxious at the way she worried her bottom lip. Realizing he would need to prompt her, he asked, "How?"

She lowered her eyes for a moment before locking gazes with him once more. "Have you any black powder?"

"Black powder," Athos repeated dumbly, his mind still struggling to keep up.

Seeing his confusion, Catherine took it upon herself to reach forward and begin checking the items that hung from his weapons belt and doublet. Athos momentarily considered stopping her, but realized it would take energy he didn't currently possess; instead, he lay limply as she completed her search.

"Aha!" she said triumphantly, her fingers working at the cord that held Athos' powder horn to his belt. When she had the item free, she opened it and pushed her forefinger inside, her expression turning to consternation when she touched the wet powder. "Ew, this won't do," she huffed in exasperation.

"Problem?" Athos asked, still doing his best to keep up with what was happening.

"It's damp," she replied as she reached into her satchel and removed a small knife.

"Hmm," he replied. "That's from the stream."

Catherine looked up sharply as she comprehended his words. "You were in the stream?" When Athos didn't reply, she went on. "Of course, you were. No wonder you're all wet." Seconds passed before Athos heard a ripping sound and looked over to see the woman cutting off a portion of material from the bottom of her skirt and laying it flat on the ground.

"What're you doing?" he slurred, finding that he was beginning to feel heavy with fatigue.

Catherine slowly poured out a portion of the powder, using her fingers to move it around on the cloth. "I'm hoping to find some dry powder in here. If that fails, I'll do my best to dry some enough that it'll ignite."

As if suddenly realizing what she was doing, Athos queried, "What do you need powder for?"

She stopped what she was doing and met his gaze, worrying her lip again for a moment before answering. "I was planning to use it to cauterize your wound."

It took several seconds for Athos to understand what he'd just heard. Once he'd comprehended her meaning, he said, "You mean to pour the powder directly on my wound?" Catherine bit her bottom lip and nodded, waiting for his reaction. Several moments passed before Athos said, "Ingenious."

"I…" she trailed off, uncertain of her words. "I have no idea if this will work. It's possible that it'll just make things worse. But, the wood around here is too wet to make a fire, and I'm not carrying a needle and thread. If there were any other way, I would try it, of course…"

Athos interrupted her babbling, which was beginning to sound very panicked. "No, it's fine. A good idea. Please," he flapped one hand in the general direction of the powder. "Continue." He waited for several moments for her to move, but she simply sat at his side, her fingers trembling. "Please," he repeated, this time infusing it with all the gratitude and confidence he could muster. "It is a sound idea and my best chance of surviving this." He held her gaze with his as she considered his words, offering a firm nod of her head when she'd reached her decision.

He must have briefly lost consciousness then, as he was next aware of a hand gently, but insistently, shaking his shoulder. "Please, Monsieur, you must wake up."

The temptation to abandon reality and the pain it brought was great, but the pleading tone in the woman's voice slowly guided him back. His eyelids fluttered for a moment before he was able to focus on her concerned expression as she leaned over him. "I'm 'wake," he slurred, hoping that his companion wouldn't notice. From the frown that deepened on her face, she had, but chose to say nothing.

"Here," she said as she offered him a short but thick twig. "It's for you to…" she trailed off, clearly uncomfortable, as she motioned towards his mouth. Wordlessly, he took the offering from her and clamped it tightly between his teeth. Drawing a deep breath through his nose, he gave a curt nod before closing his eyes.

Once he was later able to reflect on what had happened next, Athos decided Madame Giroux was quite impressive. She had swiftly moved to pull the offensive piece of wood from his leg, causing him to bite down harder as he grunted in pain. Immediately, she widened the tear in his pants with the knife and poured a small amount of black powder into the wound, setting Athos' nerves alight with fresh pain at the feeling of the abrasive particles against his raw flesh.

A heartbeat later, Athos' world ignited into an inferno as fire blazed along the length of his leg. He was robbed of breath and couldn't even manage a scream around the wood clamped between his teeth. The hot agony seemed to last forever, and he had no memory of Catherine lying across him, his body bucking wildly as he tried to escape the unrelenting pain. Moments later, he'd gone limp, the overwhelming pain too much for his overtaxed body to deal with.

In the conscious world, Giroux shakily exhaled in relief, praying that she hadn't just killed the man she'd been trying to help.

_To be continued on Thursday..._

* * *

**A/N:** The following lines are from the movie, "The Princess Bride", from a conversation between Vizzini and Buttercup.

_"_ _Is there a village nearby?"_

_"_ _There is nothing nearby…not for miles."_

Thank you to AZGirl for spotting and correcting my typos, and thanks to everyone for reading. I'd love to hear your thoughts if you're so inclined.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Aramis!” he shouted, unable to tear his gaze away from his friend’s form.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's been following along with this story. Sorry for the lack of Porthos, Aramis and d'Artagnan in the last chapter, all of whom are back in this one. Enjoy!

Their trek through the woods had been silent and filled with tension, and Porthos’ back and shoulder muscles were so stiff that Aramis thought the fibres might crack and split apart at any moment. The larger man set a gruelling pace that had his friend almost running to keep up, fueled by worry and guilt that they might already be too late to help Athos.

 

It was only when they approached the spot where the former comte had disappeared that Porthos finally slowed, edging cautiously toward the foliage that hid the dangerous precipice. As Aramis came up beside him, the larger man pushed the brush out of the way, exposing the valley and stream below. “Madre de Dios,” Aramis muttered as he crossed himself, immediately fearful for their friend’s survival.

 

Standing upright after looking down into the shallow gorge, the marksman removed his hat and ran his hand through his curls, signalling the depth of his worry for the older man. “How do you want to do this?” he asked a moment later after replacing his hat on his head.

 

Porthos shrugged, now cursing their rushed return. He’d realized more than halfway through their journey that they hadn’t even checked around for supplies, leaving them with only what they normally carried, none of which would help them move down the rugged side of the canyon that awaited them. “Go slow and use the trees and bushes as handholds. Look for any sign of Athos on the way down.”

 

Aramis considered his friend’s words, then coming to the same realization that Porthos had during their mad rush back. He nodded, reluctantly agreeing that they didn’t have any other options unless they wanted to spend yet more time returning to the clearing. In silent agreement, they both examined the steep slope, each choosing the route they would take down.

 

Porthos was the first one over the edge, followed almost at once by Aramis a few feet away, each man carefully picking their path. The footing was treacherous, with hidden undergrowth tangling their feet, and gravity constantly trying to pull them downwards. As they went, they kept their eyes open for their third, occasionally calling his name and then pausing to listen for any sounds of reply. For the first minutes, their steps were true, and they slowly but surely made their way down in a path that zigzagged slightly to compensate for the ground’s steep gradient.

 

Then, it happened.

 

One moment Aramis was reaching for his next handhold, selecting a thin sapling a couple feet away. As he went to grasp it, his left foot snagged in a root, pulling him off balance and making him miss the tree that would have stopped his fall. Gravity gleefully stepped in, adding to his uncoordinated movements as he momentarily flailed in an attempt to catch himself, but it was too late. Porthos could only watch in horror as a short cry of surprise sprang from Aramis’ lips before the marksman went tumbling down the slope towards the water below.

 

“Aramis!” he shouted, unable to tear his gaze away from his friend’s form. Thankfully, they’d been close to halfway down the steep slope, but the marksman’s body was still flung with significant force against the ground once he’d reached the bottom. Porthos stood rooted in place, his stunned mind still struggling to comprehend what had happened. His gaze was locked on the marksman’s face, and a tendril of fear snaked from the pit of his stomach to his heart, threatening to squeeze the breath from him if he didn’t find out right then if his friend had survived.

 

That fear prompted his body into action, and Porthos found himself suddenly down on the valley floor, kneeling beside his unmoving friend. Pulling his right glove free with his teeth, he reached his bare hand forward to rest on Aramis’ throat. The quick but strong thrum that met his touch forced the breath from chest in one large exhale, leaving him momentarily lightheaded with relief. “God, Aramis,” he muttered softly, dropping his chin to his chest. “First d’Artagnan, then Athos, and now you. I’m startin’ to think I’m bad luck or something.”

 

“Not bad luck,” the marksman mumbled back through barely moving lips, his eyes still tightly closed but his brow now furrowed in pain.

 

Porthos moved his hand immediately to his friend’s chest to prevent any sort of movement, not realizing yet that moving was the furthest thing from Aramis’ thoughts. “Are you alright?” the large man asked, his eyes roving over his brother’s body in a search for any obvious injuries.

 

Aramis was silent for several long moments as he took inventory of his body’s complaints. He managed to move his fingers and toes and neither action caused any sort of spike in pain that heralded serious injury. Inhaling deeply awoke a deep ache across his back, between his shoulder blades, but he dismissed the discomfort as trivial. It was his head that concerned him, the throbbing in his skull coming in nauseating waves that threatened to pull him under at any moment.

 

“Aramis?” Porthos prompted, his worry flaring anew as the silence stretched.

 

“Mm, sorry,” the marksman mumbled. “Head hurts.”

 

Porthos removed his other glove, dropping both on the ground beside him before gently placing his hands on either side of Aramis’ head. “Jus’ relax while I have a look,” he comforted as he probed first the sides and then the back of his friend’s skull.

 

Aramis winced when his friend found the spot that was causing him pain, flinching away from the touch.

 

“Hey, easy there,” Porthos soothed as he held the marksman’s head in place. “I’m going to turn your head so I can see what’s going on back here.” He waited a moment until he felt some of the tension leave his friend’s body before carefully turning the man’s head to one side. The action exposed what Porthos had already suspected – his brother had managed to land on a rock the size of his fist, and the impact had been enough to break the skin, leaving Aramis’ hair and his own fingers covered in blood.

 

“How bad?” the marksman asked.

 

“You’re leakin’ a little, but I’m sure that’s just your way of trying to get attention,” Porthos replied, trying to keep his tone light.

 

The marksman huffed out a short laugh before the sound turned to a groan as the pain in his head flared. “Sorry, ‘Mis,” Porthos said, receiving a soft hum in reply. “Can you hold still a minute more?” he asked. “I need to check.”

 

Despite the throbbing of his head, Aramis knew what his friend was referring to and did his best to relax while Porthos completed his ministrations. Moments later, fire blazed behind his closed eyes as Porthos probed the area around the laceration, checking for any shifting pieces of bone.

 

Porthos bit his lip as he completed his examination. Every touch was causing his brother pain, and he forced himself to ignore the way the marksman’s fingers scrabbled in the dirt as he sought an escape from what was happening. When Aramis whimpered, Porthos sucked in a short breath, aghast that he’d caused his friend such agony despite knowing that what he was doing was absolutely necessary. Withdrawing his hands, he sat back on his heels, drawing a steadying breath before wiping at the moisture that had sprung to his eyes.

 

When he felt he could speak without telegraphing his distress, he said, “Nothing’s broken, but you’ll need a few stitches to close up that wound.” He waited with his hand on Aramis’ shoulder as he watched the lines of pain around his friend’s eyes slowly smooth and the man’s breathing slow down to something closer to normal.

 

Letting out a shaky breath, Aramis slurred, “Tha’s good.”

 

“Think you can open your eyes for me?” Porthos questioned, mindful of the need to get Aramis somewhere he could rest along with the need to continue the search for Athos.

 

The marksman’s face crinkled in displeasure at the suggestion but he worked to open his eyes as he’d been asked. He managed only the merest slit, but it was enough to bring a broad grin to Porthos’ face. “Good job,” the larger man praised. “How ‘bout we try sittin’ up next?” Aramis groaned in reply, the act of opening his eyes having driven the spike in his skull deeper. “I know, ‘Mis, but we’ve done this dance before.”

 

The marksman snorted softly. “You’re a terrible dance partner.” Regardless, he lifted a hand to his friend so he could be helped upwards.

 

“Maybe it’s just your fault that you’ve got two left feet,” Porthos retorted with a smile as he gripped Aramis’ hand in one of his own, while his other arm moved to support his friend’s shoulders. Gently, he eased the marksman upwards, unsurprised when the injured man slumped forwards toward his chest. “I’ve got ya,” Porthos soothed, gripping the nape of Aramis’ neck as the marksman adjusted to his new position.

 

“Hate this,” the marksman said into Porthos’ chest, causing the larger man to smile wistfully. They stayed like that for over a minute, until Aramis pulled away slightly, indicating his readiness to stand. Porthos did most of the work, once more holding onto the injured man when they were upright.

 

Once Aramis’ swaying eased, Porthos asked, “Think you can stand on your own?”

 

The marksman began to nod, abruptly abandoning the action when the pain in his head throbbed warningly. Slowly, he straightened from Porthos’ support, forcing his eyes to open more fully. As he’d suspected, his vision was blurred and the ground still jumped beneath his feet when he moved his head too quickly.

 

“Concussion?” Porthos queried, already certain of the answer.

 

“Mm,” Aramis replied noncommittally.

 

Gripping the marksman’s bicep, the larger man tugged gently to get his friend moving. Aramis took a step and then stopped, pulling his arm free from the other man’s hold. “What are you doing?” he asked, squinting at Porthos.

 

“Helpin’ you back up this hill,” the larger man replied with a hint of impatience.

 

“No, we still need to find Athos,” Aramis stated.

 

“There’s no way you can find anything right now,” Porthos responded. “I’m not even confident that you can stay upright without my help.”

 

As if to prove his friend wrong, Aramis took a stumbling step forward, only to immediately begin listing to one side. With an exasperated eyeroll, Porthos once more grabbed for his friend’s arm, stopping his sideways movement. “Guess that proves my point,” he said, but the marksman wasn’t finished.

 

“Fine, I’ll just sit here while you find Athos,” Aramis said, lowering himself carefully down to the ground, grateful when he accomplished the simple task without falling over.

 

“Be reasonable,” Porthos began.

 

“No,” Aramis interrupted. “d’Artagnan has been taken and he wasn’t where we’d expected to find him. Now Athos is missing and needs our help. I refuse to believe that we’ll find them in any condition other than breathing and alive, but that will only happen if you let me rest here while you go search. Now, go, what are you waiting for?”

 

Porthos examined his friend for a moment, seeing how much it had cost the other man to say his piece. He loathed the idea of leaving Aramis alone, especially now that they were missing the other half of their group. He liked to believe he was like a lone wolf, independent and without need for anyone else, but the truth was the exact opposite. Without his brothers, he felt bereft, and felt the loss of their presence as keenly as if he’d lost a limb. That made the idea of parting from Aramis even harder, fearing that the last member of his family would be taken from him just as the others had been.

 

As if sensing his thoughts, Aramis said, “Please, Porthos, go search for Athos; do what I cannot. I promise you that I will not move from this spot until you return.”

 

Leaning over to place one hand on the marksman’s shoulder, he squeezed it momentarily, needing to feel the man’s solid presence before he could tear himself away. “Alright, ‘Mis, I’ll go look, but I’m not going far. I’ll stay within sight of you the entire time and I’ll be checkin’ that you’re keepin’ your promise to stay put.” With a last squeeze of his friend’s shoulder, Porthos straightened, scanning the area around him as he decided where he should begin his search.

 

Before he could move more than a couple paces from Aramis’ side, a new sound reached his ears, freezing him in place. Uncertain if they were about to face a new danger, he moved closer to the marksman, preparing to defend his friend if necessary. Moments later, a man came into view, following the stream as he stumbled along its curve toward the Musketeers’ location. Porthos narrowed his eyes at the bedraggled, stumbling man approaching them, noting immediately the dirtiness of the clothes and the way in which the man’s head hung low, nearly touching his chest.

 

“What is it?” Aramis hissed lowly, his normally keen eyesight compromised by his head wound.

 

“A man,” Porthos replied, his attention riveted to the approaching form, as his brain struggled to understand why the man seemed familiar.

 

Seconds later, the man tripped and fell, catching himself on his hands as he crashed down to his knees. The reprieve from landing on his face was short lived, however, as his one arm crumpled beneath him with a cry of pain. The sound had Porthos’ heart leaping, with his feet moving into action a moment later.

 

“d’Artagnan!”

 

Aramis’ head snapped up at the name, causing him to groan a second later when his fragile skull protested. Pressing the fingers of one hand to his temple, he gasped, “Did you say d’Artagnan?”

 

“Yes, it’s him,” Porthos threw over his shoulder, his steps never slowing as he ran to their friend’s side. “Stay put!” He added, certain that the marksman would try something foolish like standing up and walking on his own.

 

When he reached the familiar form of their missing brother, Porthos went down on his knees, needing confirmation of life yet again, despite what he’d just seen with his own eyes. “d’Artagnan?” he asked hesitantly, reaching for the man’s shoulder.

 

The Gascon was laying on his stomach, with one cheek pressed to the ground. His face was covered by a curtain of lanky hair, and Porthos used his other hand to gently push it away. With the young man’s face revealed, Porthos got his first look at the abuse that had been heaped on their friend.

 

There was a dark, purplish bruise that extended from d’Artagnan’s temple and circled beneath his eye, the eye itself swollen nearly closed. A partly-healed split on the young man’s lip was just within view, and Porthos catalogued it as having occurred in the past day or two.

 

Needing to further assess his friend’s state, the large man tried to rouse the Gascon again. “d’Artagnan, if you can hear me, I’m going to roll you over.” Repositioning his hands at the young man’s hip and shoulder, he began to exert gentle pressure that would reposition the Gascon on his back. Partway through the move, he was startled by a shadow above him, recognizing a moment later that Aramis had acted true to his nature and disobeyed the order to stay where he was.

 

Gritting his teeth while doing his best not to jar any hidden injuries on d’Artagnan’s limp body, he said, “Look, I don't mean to be rude, but this is not as easy as it looks, so I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't distract me.”

 

Aramis slid to the ground beside the two men, leaving Porthos room enough to finish what he’d started as he replied, “Looks like you’re managing just fine.”

 

The larger man finished repositioning their young friend before meeting the marksman’s gaze, offering a gentle admonishment. “As if you can see anything clearly right now.” Aramis didn’t respond, however, his blurry vision fixated on the Gascon’s face.

 

“I can’t believe we finally found him,” the marksman breathed out, his fingers encircling d’Artagnan’s wrist to feel the reassuring thrum of his pulse.

 

“More like he found us,” Porthos countered without heat as he considered where to start.

 

“Check his head and work your way down from there,” Aramis instructed, his need to care for the injured man surging to the forefront despite his own ills.

 

“Got a pretty good lump on the back of ‘is head,” Porthos recited, understanding the medic’s need to know what he found. “Scrapes and bruising on his temple and around his eye.” Anger swelled in his chest as he moved downwards, pulling up the torn and filthy remnants of the Gascon’s shirt. “We’ll have to check for his doublet and weapons when we get back to the clearing,” he said.

 

Once the dirty linen was rucked up around d’Artagnan’s armpits, Porthos swore softly at the dark bruising that covered the young man’s right side. Pressing fingers gently against the Gascon’s ribs, Porthos muttered softly under his breath at each bone that creaked and gave way. “Two broken ribs and maybe one more cracked.” The examination continued on the young man’s left side but revealed nothing more than some additional, less severe bruising and resulting tenderness.

 

“This arm seems fine,” Aramis announced, moving downwards to d’Artagnan’s leg. Porthos nodded, having noticed the medic performing his examination by touch. “Leg seems alright, as well.”

 

“Right arm’s broken,” the larger man stated, having stilled his movements after finding the unnatural lump in the lower part of the limb, causing the Gascon to groan in discomfort. Porthos laid the arm gently at d’Artagnan’s side as he watched their friend struggle to return to consciousness.

 

“Open your eyes, d’Artagnan,” he coaxed as the Gascon sluggishly rolled his head to one side. “Come on now, you’ve been lazy long enough.”

 

“Not lazy,” d’Artagnan slurred as his eyelids fluttered and finally opened.

 

Porthos positioned himself in the young man’s view, waiting for the Gascon to show any signs of recognition. Blinking heavily, it took several long seconds before awareness appeared in d’Artagnan’s eyes. “Porthos?” he asked uncertainly.

 

The large man grinned and nodded before indicating the marksman’s position with his chin. “Aramis is here, too.”

 

d’Artagnan turned his head until he could see the other man, Aramis squeezing his wrist gently as their eyes met. “It’s good to have you back with us,” the marksman said warmly, causing the Gascon’s lips to quirk slightly before his expression turned confused.

 

Eyes moving away from his friends, he searched beyond them. “Where is he?” he asked.

 

“Where’s who?” Aramis questioned.

 

“He was right here. I was following him,” the Gascon stated, his breathing beginning to quicken.

 

“Did you see Athos?” Porthos guessed, hope blooming in his chest that their fourth might be nearby.

 

“Lost him,” d’Artagnan gasped. “I lost him.” His chest seized with those words and he began to cough, rolling slightly to one side as he tried to curl up against the pain that flared in his ribs.

 

“Calm down, d’Artagnan,” Aramis coached, but it was too late. The Gascon’s body was starved of oxygen and exhausted by the fit of coughing. With a last weak spasm of his chest, his head lolled and awareness fled.

_To be continued on Sunday..._

* * *

**A/N:** The following line is from the movie, “The Princess Bride”, from a conversation between the Dread Pirate Roberts and Inigo: 

_“Look, I don't mean to be rude, but this is not as easy as it looks, so I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't distract me.”_

Thank you to AZGirl for spotting and correcting my typos.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’ve once again failed to keep your brother safe.” He paused for a moment and stepped closer. “Just. Like. Me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the great reactions to Aramis' tumble and d'Artagnan's appearance. Hope you enjoy the next part!

When he first opened his eyes, he wasn’t certain he was actually awake. His sight was blurry and filled with flames dancing against wooden beams, something that he only realized after several blinks to bring his vision into focus. Save for the light that danced across the honey-colored wood that made up the ceiling, the edges of the space around him were dark. The crackling of the fire was soothing, and his eyes slipped closed as his body’s exhaustion dragged him under once more.

 

The next time he awoke, he registered the heavy weight of blankets across his body, and he let out a contented groan at the feeling of warmth that encompassed him. Moving the fingers of one hand, he could feel soft fabric beneath him, cocooning and protecting him from the hard ground. He blinked lazily a half-dozen times as he sought to understand where he was, but his body lacked the energy for anything other than sleep. With a soft sigh, he left consciousness behind again.

 

There was a strong sense that something had changed when he awoke for a third time, and the sense of contentment he’d experienced earlier was sorely lacking. What had previously been welcomed warmth had morphed into uncomfortable heat, and he could feel sweat beading at his temples before it rolled down the sides of his face to dampen his hair. With effort, he managed to pull his right arm free from the suffocating blankets that covered him and push the fabric down to his waist in a clumsy, uncoordinated movement.

 

Letting his arm drop back to his side, he breathed with exertion after his minor accomplishment. He still felt overheated, but the cooler air on his slick skin felt heavenly. Sighing in relief, he licked dry lips, desperately thirsty.

 

“You look parched, brother,” a voice commented, prompting Athos to roll his head towards the speaker.

 

“Thomas?” he asked, his voice weak and barely audible.

 

His brother smiled at being recognized, pushing away from the wall where he’d been leaning to move closer. “You look terrible, Olivier. What on earth possessed you to pursue such a dangerous lifestyle.”

 

Athos’ brow furrowed in confusion, his brain identifying that something was wrong with his current situation, but not thinking clearly enough to recognize what. After several moments, he replied, “You.”

 

“Me?” Thomas chuffed in disbelief. “I find that hard to believe. You were always strong-willed and there was nothing anyone could do or say to dissuade you once you’d made up your mind about something.”

 

Athos swallowed painfully against the dryness in his mouth and throat before asking, “What are you doing here?”

 

“Isn’t it obvious?” his brother smirked. “You wanted me here.”

 

“Here?” Athos replied, feeling disoriented. “I don’t even know where here is.”

 

“That, my dear brother, is simply another example of your foolhardiness.” Thomas began to slowly pace back and forth as he spoke. “Or is it arrogance? No matter, it is the result that is important, not how it was achieved.”

 

Athos’ head was spinning, his brothers’ words rolling over him in a dizzying array of disjointed words that were spouted too quickly for him to comprehend.

 

“Thomas,” Athos said, his tone pleading as he struggled to pull his fragmented thoughts into some sort of order. “I don’t feel very good,” he finally managed.

 

“I imagine not,” Thomas concurred. “You’ve been looking for your missing man for what, three, or is it four days now. What do you think they’ve done with him in that time?”

 

Athos’ beleaguered mind laboured to make sense of his brother’s words, finally remembering d’Artagnan’s kidnapping and the subsequent panicked search. “What do you know of d’Artagnan?” he asked, even as some part of his brain recognized that the question he posed was wrong in some way.

 

“I know all I need to know, Olivier,” Thomas replied, stopping his pacing to pin his brother with a piercing gaze. “I know he’s been taken from you. I know you couldn’t save him, and you’ve once again failed to keep your brother safe.” He paused for a moment and stepped closer. “Just. Like. Me.”

 

The words opened a floodgate of memories. Thomas, lying dead on the floor in a pool of blood, his lifeless eyes gazing accusingly at him. His wife, begging, professing her innocence and Thomas’ guilt as she clung to his shirt, hands fisted into the material even as he tried to push her away. The meadow, covered in summer blossoms, waving alongside the grasses as he rode away from the tree where he’d hung his murdering wife. Thomas was dead!

 

“No,” Athos moaned at the memory, grief mingling with overwhelming guilt, while tears flowed from his eyes. He closed his eyes and groaned lowly once more, nausea stirring in his belly as he was racked with pain. His breathing sped up as saliva pooled in his mouth, heralding his inability to avoid being sick. Barely managing to roll to his side, he retched pitifully, his body wracked with painful spasms as his empty stomach tried to turn itself inside out. Time lost all meaning as he lost himself in his misery, finally collapsing on his side where he panted and moaned.

 

Gentle hands repositioned him onto his back, while a low voice murmured nonsensical words of comfort. A weight on his chest heralded the return of the blanket, and Athos moaned in protest, but was softly shushed and ignored. He was aware of a cool, damp cloth being run across his face and neck, and he sighed at its touch. When a cup was brought to his lips, he drank greedily until it was pulled away, and then whimpered at its loss. “Sleep,” he heard, and his traitorous body obeyed, his mind shutting down to escape his latest failure. 

* * *

Porthos gritted his teeth against the stress that was eating away at him, even as he gently corrected Aramis with a light tug on the marksman’s arm. How they’d made it to the top of the steep incline would forever be a mystery to him, and he could only attribute it to his and Aramis’ stubbornness.

 

Soon after d’Artagnan had fallen unconscious, the marksman had turned to the side and been violently ill, the concussion reasserting its dominance over the man. Aramis had then promptly begun to argue with Porthos about their aborted search for Athos, and although it had nearly killed Porthos to do so, he’d steadfastly refused to leave the two injured men alone while he searched the area.

 

Instead, he helped Aramis to the top of the incline, the marksman becoming more nauseous and less mobile with every step. By the time they’d reach the summit, the marksman was pale and shaky, and barely aware. Porthos had deposited his friend gently at the base of a tree several feet away from the edge of the drop-off, before making the arduous trip back down to collect d’Artagnan.

 

He was still undecided about whether it was a good or a bad thing that the man remained unconscious. Carrying the Gascon’s slim form up the hill had been challenging, and he’d nearly lost his footing more times than he cared to admit. Given d’Artagnan’s confused state, and poor physical condition, however the large man wasn’t certain he would have been much help if he’d been able to stand on his own two feet.

 

By the time he reached Aramis’ side, Porthos’ legs were trembling with exertion and his chest heaved with his efforts to catch his breath. The marksman had done what he could to guide the Gascon from Porthos’ shoulders and then they’d rested for several minutes before the larger man was ready to move. That was how they’d found themselves stumbling slowly back towards the bandits’ hideout, Porthos with two injured men to tend, and the spectre of a missing brother hanging over them.

 

Aramis completed the trip gamely, even though Porthos was certain the marksman had nearly exhausted his strength. That fact was confirmed to him after they’d entered the house and the marksman’s legs turned to jelly, refusing to hold him up any longer. Still burdened with d’Artagnan, who’d completed the journey slung over the large man’s back and shoulders, Porthos couldn’t even stop his friend’s descent.

 

Unhappy about the situation, but realizing there was only so much he could do, he’d deposited the Gascon next to Aramis on the floor and then conducted a quick search of their temporary abode. Finding several blankets, he’d brought them to his friends, creating a makeshift pallet before relocating both men onto it. Aramis had awoken then and stayed awake long enough to hear Porthos’ instructions: stay here,  try to stay awake and watch over d’Artagnan. More guilt and worry accompanied him as he left his friends behind to gather their horses.

 

Neither of the injured men was fit to ride, but Porthos knew they needed more than what their current location could offer. After briefly checking on their prisoners and leaving them a small amount of food and water, Porthos gratefully accepted Aramis’ help getting d’Artagnan seated in front of him on his horse, and then helped pull the marksman onto his own. The journey back to the village was a painfully long one.

 

Their pace was necessarily slow, and Porthos continuously split his attention between the insensate man braced against his chest, and the half-aware marksman who was obviously flagging and nearly bent in half in the saddle. By the time they’d entered the village where they’d been staying, Porthos was certain that he’d ground his molars to a nub after clenching his jaw so tightly for so many hours. It wasn’t until he’d tended to both men’s wounds, gotten them ensconced in beds above the tavern, and returned the horses to the stable, that he could finally take a moment to think.

 

“Athos,” he said softly, under his breath, careful not to wake Aramis, who’d fallen asleep almost as soon as his head had hit the pillow. Porthos hated the situation he now found himself in, caring for his two brothers while a third was God only knew where. He pulled the fingers of one hand through his curls, closing his eyes for a moment as he berated himself for his failure.

 

“God forgive me,” he begged, wondering whether God’s forgiveness would matter since he was doubtful that he could ever forgive himself for the choice he’d made. Aramis had argued and pleaded with him to stay and search for the older man, but Porthos was certain the medic’s judgement was impaired and couldn’t be trusted. If he’d been uninjured, he’d surely have recognized d’Artagnan’s poor state and the need to return to civilization sooner rather than later to tend to his hurts. That the marksman had disagreed so vehemently with him, only made him doubt himself more.

 

“What if you were right?” he asked, his voice full of despair. What if Athos had been hurt, and the delay in finding him resulted in the man’s death. Porthos was certain that was an outcome he’d never be able to live with. Trading the lives of two of his brothers for a third would never add up for him.

 

“What have I done?” he moaned as he abruptly stood, needing a release for the anxious energy that flowed through his veins.  

 

“Could you please berate yourself a little more quietly?” Aramis murmured, his face pinched with pain and his eyes still closed.

 

“God, Aramis, ‘m sorry,” Porthos said, quickly returning to his seat at the marksman’s side.

 

The guilt in the larger man’s voice was overwhelming, and it forced Aramis to open his eyes and examine his friend. As he’d expected, Porthos’ expression was contrite, but underneath was a restlessness that spoke of the need for action. Carefully inhaling through his nose to quell the first stirrings of nausea, Aramis said, “We’re back at the village.”

 

“Yeah,” Porthos confirmed. “I wasn’t sure how much you’d remember, but d’Artagnan needed a real bed and proper food.” _You too_ , he mused to himself, but didn’t voice the thought.

 

Staying still, Aramis let his eyes roam around the small space. “Where is d’Artagnan?”

 

Porthos motioned to one side with his head. “Across the hall in the other room.”

 

A look of panic appeared on the marksman’s face, and Porthos accurately read his intention to try and move. Acting swiftly, he placed a restraining hand on Aramis’ chest. “Let’s not have any of that now. Don’t you remember how badly this ended last time?”

 

In truth, the marksman had no idea what had happened before, his brain still muddled by concussion and his memories fractured, littered with large gaps. Letting out a soft sigh of frustration, Porthos said, “You tried checking on him before, and nearly cracked your skull again when you swooned.”

 

“Swooned?” Aramis repeated with horror. “I can assure you that I have never in my life swooned. Passed out, even felt faint the odd time or two, but _never_ swooned like some damsel in distress.”

 

Rolling his eyes, Porthos soothed. “Nearly passed out then, in a very manly way, of course.”

 

Aramis squinted against the dim light in the room as he silently examined his friend’s expression. Sighing softly, he said, “Stop humouring me. Let’s agree that I became lightheaded and move on. You should be with d’Artagnan and not me.”

 

“Nah,” Porthos replied. “I’ve got everything well in hand.”  

 

Aramis narrowed his eyes, weighing the truth of his friend’s words. Unsatisfied, he said, “He was very confused and might hurt himself. He shouldn’t be alone.” With that, he made another attempt to rise and was once more thwarted by the large man’s hand on his chest.

 

His expression morphing to annoyance, Aramis tried again. “Look, I know you’ve done your best.” Porthos’ eyebrow rose in silent warning. “What I mean is, you’ve done as much as possible for d’Artagnan.” The large man’s other brow joined the first. Exhaling loudly, the marksman huffed in frustration, only to receive a large grin from his friend.

 

“What?” Aramis asked, confused. Moments later, understanding dawned. “You’re just stalling now.”

 

Porthos’ grin widened and his expression turned mischievous. “You’d like to think that, wouldn’t you?”

 

Exasperated, the marksman made motions to rise, and Porthos knew he’d pushed the other man far enough. “Alright, alright,” he said, finally relenting. I’ll explain if you promise not to move from this bed.” Seconds later, Aramis gave a curt nod of assent, although he still eyed the other man with suspicion.

 

“I know d’Artagnan’s fine because of this,” Porthos explained, lifting up what appeared to be a length of twine with two spoons tied to the end.

 

Aramis stared for several seconds before he asked, “Did you hit your head when I wasn’t looking?”

 

Porthos chuffed out a soft laugh. “No, but I’ve had my hands full with the two of you, and this was the only way I could manage being in two places at once.”

 

“Explain,” the marksman ordered, settling back against his pillow as the ache in his head escalated.

 

_“d’Artagnan, stop, you need to stay in bed,” Porthos commanded. Hhis hands pressed against the young man’s shoulders as the Gascon attempted to escape the room. “Come on, I’ll help you get settled.”_

_“I have to find him, Porthos,” the young man countered, his glazed eyes fixed on the door._

_Swallowing a sigh, Porthos said, “We’ll go back and look for him later; I promise. But right now I need you to get some rest. You’re in no condition to be running around the forest.”_

_“But he needs me,” the Gascon pleaded, grudgingly allowing the other man to lead him back to his bed._

_“Aye, and we need him, too, but you know he wouldn’t want you looking for him while you’re hurt,” Porthos replied._

_d’Artagnan snorted softly. “We don’t need him. Half the time, we’re trying to outsmart him.”_

_Porthos’ brow furrowed in confusion as he gently guided the Gascon to sit down. “Who were you followin’ out there in the forest?”_

_“You know who,” d’Artagnan replied, his burst of energy expended and fatigue rushing in to take its place._

_“No,” Porthos countered softly but insistently. “I don’t know. How ‘bout you tell me.”_

_“The Cardinal,” d’Artagnan replied. “Don’t know how they caught him, too, but it’s our duty to get him back.”_

_Porthos’ face blanched at the Gascon’s words as the depth of the young man’s injuries was revealed. Swallowing thickly, he said, “Richelieu’s just fine, d’Artagnan. There’s no need to worry about him.”_

_His words had the opposite effect as the young man tried once more to rise, Porthos easily keeping him on the mattress and guiding him into a reclined position. “He’s not, Porthos. I mean, he wasn’t hurt or anything, but we have to bring him back to Paris.”_

_“He’s already there,” Porthos stated with certainty, his tone garnering renewed attention from his charge._

_“You think so?” d’Artagnan asked plaintively._

_Nodding, the large man assured, “I can guarantee it.” Silence fell after his statement, and Porthos felt uncomfortable breaking it, praying the Gascon would simply fall asleep rather than pressing for more information. Several long moments later, Porthos’ prayers were answered when the young man gave a sleepy nod, closed his eyes, and drifted off._

_Rising shakily from his friend’s side, Porthos swore softly under his breath. “Christ, how did this happen?” He turned abruptly for the door, intending to return to Aramis’ room, but stopped a moment later when he realized the young man was still at risk. Once more, he cursed the fact that he was alone in caring for his two injured friends, and that the rooms they’d let were too small to fit both men._

_Dragging a hand through his curls in frustration, his eyes wandered aimlessly around the room, settling on the small tray that contained the remnants of his dinner. The stirrings of an idea tickled his brain and moments later he was in motion, enacting the plan that would allow him to be in two places at once._

“I knew he’d keep trying to get up and leave, so the other end of this,” Porthos again lifted the twine and spoons, “is tied to his leg. If he moves, I’ll hear, and can go to his room and stop him.”

 

Aramis stared at the other man in awe as he said, “That’s…brilliant.”

 

Porthos shrugged as he broke eye contact, the praise making him flush with embarrassment. “It’s nothin’.”

 

Aramis grinned at the modest man, reaching a hand out to grip Porthos’ wrist as he said, “I never would have thought of something so simple but so effective.” Pausing, his expression turned troubled as he asked, “Was d’Artagnan following Athos?”

 

The moment of brevity was over as Porthos met his friend’s gaze. “No, he says he was with the Cardinal.”

 

“The Cardinal,” Aramis’ breathed out. “But, he’s…”

 

“Yeah, I know.” The words landed heavily as the men contemplated their implication.

 

d’Artagnan had been searching for a dead man.   

 

_To be continued next Thursday..._  

* * *

**A/N:** The following lines are from the movie, “The Princess Bride”, from a conversation between the Dread Pirate Roberts and Vizzini:

_“You're just stalling now.”_

_“You'd like to think that, wouldn't you?”_

 

Thanks to AZGirl for spotting and correcting my mistakes.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A soft curse from the larger man was the only sound breaking the painful silence that had fallen over the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the great reactions to the reveal in the last chapter, along with all the great speculation about the Cardinal in earlier chapters. Hope you enjoy this next part!

He woke to the sensation of water at his lips, which he parted greedily as instinct took over. His mouth and throat were painfully dry, and the liquid tasted heavenly, though it was gone far too soon. He groaned at its loss, not aware enough yet to realize what he’d done.

 

“No complaining, now, we need to take things slowly,” a voice soothed. “Best not tempt fate and have you sick again.”

 

_‘Sick?’_ his mind wondered, skipping to the next thought almost at once. _‘Again?’_ He had no memory of being sick, let alone more than once, but his head was still too muddled to dwell on the matter. A damp cloth passed over his face and neck, causing a low murmur of appreciation.

 

Above him, Catherine smiled at the reaction. “If you like that, you could at least open your eyes for me.”

 

Athos heard the request, noting with a hint of surprise that his eyes were indeed closed. With a supreme effort, he dragged his lids open to thin slits, allowing a tiny bit of light in and drawing a comment of approval from the woman at his side.

 

“It’s good to see you back again, Monsieur,” she said as she dropped the damp cloth into a bowl at her side. “I wasn’t certain you’d be waking again given how difficult you were being last night.”

 

The comment caused Athos to frown as he searched his memory for any information about the previous evening. As though reading his mind, Giroux explained. “You spiked a high fever. Not wholly unexpected, but I’d hoped that cauterizing your wound might spare you. Sadly, that was not the case.” She sighed unhappily as she ended.

 

“A’right,” Athos rasped, his dry throat closing up and causing him to cough weakly. Catherine tipped the cup to his lips again, allowing him a couple of swallows before pulling it away. Carefully clearing his throat, he tried again. “It’s alright,” he said. “I know you did your best and I’m grateful.”

 

Giroux gave him a smile of thanks as she rose and ran her hands along the front of her dress nervously. “Do you think your stomach is ready for something more than water?” she asked. At Athos’ nod, she left the room, leaving him alone to examine his surroundings.

 

To his left was the fireplace that he vaguely remembered from his fevered dreams, and he recalled the feeling of uncomfortable heat as the fever burned through his veins. Turning his head in the opposite direction, he spotted the doorway through which Catherine had exited. His eyes were drawn to the wall next to it as a fragmented memory tugged at his brain.

 

The last time he’d looked at that spot, there had been a man standing there, but it had been someone who was out of place in his current surroundings. His eyes drifted away as he tried to understand the feelings of wrongness that now settled over him at the odd recollection. “Thomas,” he whispered as the memory returned, his heart speeding up in response.

 

“Is he someone important?” Catherine asked, and Athos was startled to find that she’d returned and was once more sitting on a stool at his side. At his look of confusion, she went on. “You said his name several times last night, so I assumed…” As Athos’ expression shifted from surprise to horror and finally became completely closed off, she said, “Never mind. My mistake.”

 

Realizing how uncomfortable he’d just made his saviour, the former comte replied, “You’re correct. He was someone important.” He paused, swallowing uncomfortably before continuing. “He was my brother.”

 

“Was?” she murmured, comprehension dawning a moment later. Silence fell as both sought a way to dispel the awkwardness of Athos’ revelation. Remembering the cup in her hand, she said, “I’ve brought you some broth.”

 

“Thank you,” Athos responded, shifting to try and lift himself up. Catherine put down the cup and helped him sit up, rearranging the pillows on the pallet to support him in a semi-reclined position. Once he was comfortable, she passed him the broth and waited quietly as he sipped.

 

“This is good,” he commented. “Thank you.”

 

She smiled shyly as she replied. “It’s just broth.”

 

The warm liquid was comforting and warmed Athos from the inside. As he drank, he asked, “Is this your home?”

 

Sadness clouded Giroux’s face as she said, “It is…was.” She paused, feeling flustered, and took a moment to collect herself. “I lived here with my husband, but will be leaving and returning to live with my brother and his family in a few weeks.”

 

“Your husband,” Athos kindly prompted before taking another sip of broth.

 

“Died, this past winter,” she replied, her gaze directed at her hands which rested in her lap. “This,” she indicated the house with one hand, “was his dream. Without him here…” She trailed off.

 

Deciding a new topic was in order, Athos said, “I don’t remember much of what happened after you cauterized my wound. How did we get here?”

 

“You fell unconscious, and nothing I did to try and rouse you worked,” she admitted. “We were relatively close to my home, so I took the chance and left you there while I returned for my horse. Somehow, you managed to wake enough so I could help you onto the horse, and I brought you back here. The fever took hold soon after.”

 

“Thank you, Madame, I am in your debt,” Athos replied, grateful for the woman’s kindness and fortitude in caring for him. Finishing the last swallow of broth, he placed the cup on the floor, turning his attention to the problem of reuniting with his friends. “How far are we from Mareil-sur-Mauldre?”

 

Catherine’s brow furrowed as she said, “It is several hours’ ride. Is that where you’re from?”

 

“No,” Athos admitted. “But my friends will be waiting for me there,” he stated, hoping that would be the case.

 

She nodded as she said, “You are a soldier.” There was no hint of a question in her tone, and Athos lifted one eyebrow inquisitively. “Your pauldron,” she replied to his unspoken query.

 

“I am a King’s Musketeer,” Athos confirmed, seeing no reason to dispute her conclusion.

 

Catherine nodded again. “Then we must return you to your friends as quickly as possible, as I assume you have work to complete.” Athos tipped his chin in confirmation. “You can take one of the horses and then leave it at the stables for me to collect.”

 

“Are you certain, Madame?” he asked.

 

“Yes, they know me and won’t have a problem boarding it for me until I can get there,” Catherine stated confidently. “Do you think you can ride?”

 

That was the more important question, and Athos felt a twinge of pain from his leg as he inadvertently tensed the muscles. “I believe I will be able to manage.”

 

“Very well then,” Catherine said as she rose. “Rest here while I prepare your horse and some food. When I’m finished, I’ll help you get ready to depart. Its just morning; if you leave now, you’ll make it there before dark.”

 

“Thank you, Madame…Catherine,” he replied, watching her give a nod of acknowledgement before walking away. Leaning into the pillows at his back, he sighed, grateful to be alive and readying to reunite with his friends. As he waited, his mind drifted, and he mused absently how different this Catherine was to his former betrothed.

* * *

Porthos had stayed with Aramis throughout the night, dozing in a chair and eventually moving to the floor next to the narrow bed. He’d had to check on d’Artagnan several times when the spoons had jangled, signalling concerning movement from the other room. Each time, Porthos had managed to talk the Gascon into returning to bed and had watched over him until slumber had reasserted its hold.

 

None of them had managed a restful night between d’Artagnan’s repeated escape attempts, Aramis’ recurring bouts of sickness, and Porthos’ responsibility to care for them both. As such, morning found the large man bleary-eyed and exhausted, his fatigue compounded by worry for their missing fourth.

 

He was just contemplating fetching breakfast when a knock at the door startled him. The sight that greeted him when he opened it brought a smile to his worn countenance. “Etienne, it’s good to see you,” he welcomed the newcomer, briefly clasping the other man’s forearm before motioning to the hallway. Pulling the door closed behind him, he explained, “Aramis had a bad night, and I don’t want to wake him.”

 

The other Musketeer nodded in understanding before asking, “What’s happened. Did you find d’Artagnan?”

 

“Yeah,” Porthos confirmed. “But we lost Athos.” At the look of confusion on his comrade’s face, Porthos explained everything that had transpired since Etienne and the others had departed to escort their latest group of prisoners back to Paris, before returning once more to pick up the latest batch.

 

When the large man had finished his explanation, Etienne said, “Give me directions to where you left the others. We’ll collect them and search for Athos.” Porthos appeared torn for several long seconds as he considered the other man’s offer until the newcomer continued. “Porthos, from what you’ve told me, you need to stay here with Aramis and d’Artagnan. Unless you think Aramis well enough to take over from you?”

 

Porthos shook his head no, prompting Etienne to go on. “Then leave things in our hands. If we depart now, we’ll have most of the day to search, and then we can stay at the house overnight if needed. We’ll return tomorrow with the men you locked up and news of Athos.”

 

Reluctantly, the large man gave a nod of agreement. “Alright, but you bring Athos straight back here if you find ‘im.”

 

“Of course,” the other man concurred, knowing well the bond between the Inseparables.

 

Porthos exhaled slowly as he watched his comrade disappear, wanting nothing more than to be at his side to look for their missing friend. “No, your place is here right now,” he scolded himself, tugging absently at his beard as he came to terms with his decision to stay and look after the two injured men. Shaking himself from his thoughts, he was about to move down the hallway and to the tavern in search of food, when a noise from the Gascon’s room stopped him.

 

_‘Now what?’_ he thought to himself as he opened the door and walked inside.

 

d’Artagnan was awake again and apparently aware enough to notice his damaged ribs. Somehow, he’d managed to maneuver himself to the side of his bed where Porthos found him, seated and hunched over, with his broken arm tucked against his stomach. A low groan of pain reached the larger man’s ears as he crouched down in front of his friend.

 

Placing one hand gently on the Gascon’s shoulder, he asked, “d’Artagnan, are you alright?”

 

The young man slowly lifted his head to peer into Porthos’ face. “What happened?”

 

“Actually, I was hoping you could tell me,” he replied, repositioning himself at his friend’s side. “What do you remember?”

 

d’Artagnan’s face screwed up as he searched his memories for the information Porthos had requested. “Bandits?” he asked uncertainly. At the larger man’s nod, he continued. “The beat me, drugged me too, I think.”

 

Porthos nodded again, having suspected the same, and leading him to withhold a pain draught until the younger man was more coherent. “What else?”

 

“I escaped…with the Cardinal,” d’Artagnan replied. “Is he here?”

 

Porthos took a steadying breath as he considered how to proceed. While he didn’t want to upset the younger man, he also needed him to know the truth. “d’Artagnan, the Cardinal wasn’t with you.”

 

“No, he was there,” the Gascon stated. “I wish he wasn’t at times, but he was, and we escaped together.”

 

“He couldn’t have been there,” Porthos reiterated, hoping the younger man’s memories would return.

 

“You’re wrong,” d’Artagnan countered. “You weren’t there, but I was…we both were.”

 

“No, he couldn’t have been there with you,” Porthos stated firmly, wondering how to break the news without unnecessarily upsetting his friend. “d’Artagnan, Richelieu’s dead. He’s been dead for more than six months.”

 

The Gascon was already shaking his head in disagreement, his eyes widening in disbelief. “No, you’re wrong. That’s…that’s not possible. He was there. What you’re saying…it’s inconceivable.”

 

Seeing his friend becoming upset, Porthos put an arm around his shoulders, trying to calm him. “He wasn’t there; he couldn’t have been. He died, and there was a state funeral. Don’t you remember?” he prodded.

 

“No, I told you. What you’re saying, it’s…inconceivable. Yes, that’s what it is, inconceivable. I would have known.”

 

“Look, you suffered a couple of head wounds and were probably drugged. I’m impressed you didn’t imagine your father was there with you.” He stopped and cringed at his own words, realizing a moment too late the insensitivity of his comment.

 

Frustrated, he steeled himself to try again, only to pause at the Gascon’s soft mumbling. “No, it’s inconceivable. I saw him; I talked to him; he was real. It’s inconceivable.”

 

Needing to pull d’Artagnan from his downward spiral before things got any worse, Porthos said, “d’Artagnan, stop. You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.” His words came out more harshly than he’d hoped. Porthos could only watch helplessly as the young man began to tremble, a look of horror on his face as he physically recoiled.

 

Moments later, the Gascon had risen from the bed and pressed himself into one corner of the room, slowly sliding to the floor as his legs refused to hold him. His expression conveyed an absolute despair that had Porthos springing to his feet and moving to kneel in front of the young man. “d’Artagnan, are you alright?”

 

The Gascon once more recoiled from his touch as he wrapped one arm around his middle, the broken one resting in his lap, and pulled his knees as close to his chest as his damaged side would allow. “d’Artagnan?” Porthos asked tremulously, hoping for a response from the other man. The Gascon replied by resting his head his knees, refusing to answer and blocking Porthos out. A soft curse from the larger man was the only sound breaking the painful silence that had fallen over the room.

_To be continued on Sunday..._

* * *

**A/N:** The following lines are from the movie, “The Princess Bride”, from a conversation between the Vizzini and Inigo:

  _“Inconceivable!”_

  _“You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.”_

 

Thank you to AZGirl for spotting and correcting my typos.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “With time and rest, he will recover, but until then, blaming yourself – ourselves – is not productive.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the continued interest in this fic and for the lovely comments. Hope you enjoy this next part!

It was an especially rough version of Athos who dismounted at the tavern late that afternoon. The ride from Catherine’s home had been an exercise in pain and fortitude, only willpower keeping him on the steed during those moments when the throbbing of his leg had nearly overwhelmed him. As a result, he’d had to travel slowly and take frequent breaks to stave off the persistent darkness that threatened at the edges of his vision each time the pain outgrew his capacity to cope.

 

He had no idea if his friends were here, but he didn’t know how to find the bandits’ clearing from Catherine’s, nor did he have the energy to spend time searching for it. That had made his decision simple – he would travel to Mareil-sur-Mauldre and hope the others were there waiting for him. In his heart, he knew the chances of finding them there were evenly split; given his own disappearance, the men were just as likely searching the forest for him rather than waiting around in town.

 

Swallowing a sigh, he prayed he’d find them here, because his body lacked the strength to go any farther than the rooms they’d let. Gritting his teeth, Athos swung his bad leg over the back of the horse, letting his weight settle onto his uninjured leg. The next step would be painful as he shifted his injured limb to the ground, but there was sadly no way of avoiding it at some point.

 

Slowly, he bent the knee of his good leg, lowering himself as far as possible before dropping to the ground. He kept a firm hold on the saddle as he did so, yelping as pain flared through his injured leg, the limb threatening to collapse beneath him. It was only the horse’s steadying presence that kept him upright as he moved as quickly as possible to set his other foot on the ground.

 

Balancing carefully on his good leg, he leaned against the horse’s support, resting his forehead against its flank as he breathed through the pain that dismounting had awakened. When he felt like he could move without passing out, he raised his head and examined the distance between him and the door of the tavern. The dozen feet that awaited him, followed by the additional dozen stairs he would need to climb, weren’t just daunting – in his condition, they represented a nearly impossible feat. Sadly, he had no other option.

 

Taking a steadying breath, he shifted sideways, bracing himself on the horse until he reached its head. He took a moment to attach the reins to a post, before using the beam to shuffle forward another couple feet. His next steps would be unaided, and he girded himself for the fire he knew was about to erupt from his wound.

 

With a grunt, he managed the first step, shifting his weight back to his uninjured leg as swiftly as possible. Not pausing to think about it, he forced himself forward, nearly collapsing against the tavern’s door once he reached it. He paused there for over a minute, gathering his reserves and letting his breathing return to a more normal state. When he felt ready, he pushed through the door, continuing his awkward gait until he was inside and standing at the bottom of the stairs, which sat to the left of the main room.

 

He peered upwards, his mind absently counting the number of steps awaiting him, frustratingly finding that there were just as many as he remembered. There was no handrail, just bare walls on both sides, and he leaned against the left one as he attempted to climb the first stair. No matter how hard he focused on making it move, his right leg was weak and almost non-responsive.  

 

He positioned his right hand at the back of his thigh, lifting the limb upwards until it cleared the top of the step. Once more gritting his teeth, he pushed off with his left foot, shifting his balance up and forward to ascend. Despite his stubborn determination, his body refused to cooperate, and the knee of his injured leg bent, dropping him forward to land awkwardly on his hands. He lay there panting for several long seconds, his laboured breaths interspersed with low moans as the agony in his leg burned hotly.

 

Clenching the fingers of one hand into a fist, he struck the wood beneath it, tears threatening at his painful failure. Drawing several long, calming breaths, he pushed himself upwards, raising his upper body off the steps. Scowling at the stairs that lay ahead of him, he shifted his weight to his left leg, pivoting on it as he steadied himself with his hands, until he could sit on the staircase.

 

Steeling himself, he pushed upwards with his arms and one leg, moving onto the next higher step with a grunt of effort. A grin of triumph graced his face, and he repeated his earlier action, moving slowly but steadily upwards until he’d conquered the entire flight of stairs.

 

Settling at the top, his feet a couple steps below, he hunched forward with his elbows on his knees, his hands tangled in the matted curls atop his head. His chest rose and fell quickly as he fought to catch his breath, while sweat trickled down both sides of his face.

 

“My God, Athos, is that you?” a voice nearly shouted, startling the former comte and causing his head to snap upwards. “Thank God,” the deep baritone continued.

 

It took Athos a moment for his mind to place the voice, his lips quirking slightly as he realized his prayers had been answered. Carefully turning his body so he could see down the hallway behind him, he replied, “Porthos.”

 

The large man wore a wide grin on his face as he approached, his expression faltering as he neared and got a proper look at his friend. Athos’ clothes were dirty, with a long rip adorning one leg. His face and hands were covered in a multitude of minor scrapes, reflecting his hazardous trip down the side of the cliff. Atop his head sat a mass of dishevelled curls, while his eyes appeared glazed with pain and fatigue. “Athos, are you alright?” Porthos asked softly as he stopped by his friend’s side, immediately crouching down to the older man’s eye level.

 

_‘I’m fine,’_ Athos almost replied, but the pain in his leg reminded him that honesty would likely be the better strategy. “I’ve been better,” he said, allowing some of his exhaustion to bleed through in his tone. “In truth, I am more relieved than anything to find you here.”

 

Guilt passed over Porthos’ face, and he momentarily looked away, wringing his hands in discomfort before once more meeting his friend’s gaze. “Yeah, about that,” he began. “I wanted to look for you, but Aramis was hurt, and then d’Artagnan showed up…”

 

“d’Artagnan?” Athos latched onto the name like a drowning man seeking dry land. “You found him?”

 

Sheepishly, Porthos replied, “It’s more like he found us.” At the expectant look on the other man’s face, he said, “There’s not much to tell really. Aramis fell down the slope while we were looking for you, and shortly afterwards, d’Artagnan just sort of showed up. They’re both in rooms down the hall,” he finished, indicating the rooms behind him with one hand.

 

At Porthos’ news, Athos immediately began making motions to stand, grimacing in pain when he shifted his injured leg. “Hey, whoa, why don’t you tell me where you’re hurt before we try to move you?” the larger man suggested, one hand already resting on Athos’ shoulder to hold him in place.

 

The former comte exhaled in a combination of pain and frustration before replying. “My leg.” At Porthos’ raised brow, he realized he would need to be more forthcoming. “I managed to impale it with a small piece of wood.”

 

Porthos’ other eyebrow had joined the first, making his surprise clear. “You were impaled?” At Athos’ nod, he shook his head in sorrow. “God, I’m so sorry, Athos. I should have tried harder to find you.”

 

Placing one hand on his friend’s bent knee, the older man countered, “You have nothing for which to apologize. I fell into the stream and ended up several miles away from where you were. There was no way you would have found me, even if you had stayed and searched.”

 

“Several miles,” the large man repeated in wonder. “How did you manage to get back ‘ere, then?”

 

Athos gave a small smile as he responded, “I was found by a good Samaritan. She removed the wood from my leg, cauterized the wound, and tended to me in her home.” Porthos’ eyes dropped automatically to the tear in his friend’s breeches, trying but failing to see the wound there. “This morning when I woke, she loaned me a horse and provided directions to return here.”

 

Porthos nodded slowly as he processed what he’d been told. “You were damn lucky.” Athos merely dipped his chin in agreement. As if reaching a decision, the large man asked, “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

 

Again, Athos’ first instinct was to dismiss his other aches, but the concerned expression on the other man’s face had him answering truthfully. “Just scrapes and bruises. It’s really just my leg that’s bothering me and,” he paused as he glanced around him, “I fear I haven’t the strength left to stand.”

 

“That’s easily dealt with,” Porthos replied as he stood and moved down two stairs. “Scoot back,” he commanded, gently holding Athos’ injured leg off the ground as his friend complied, before setting the limb down on the hallway floor. Retaking his position at the top of the stairs, Porthos extended both hands to his friend. “Let me do all the work.”

 

Smoothly, the large man pulled his friend to his feet, the majority of Athos’ weight landing on his left leg. Once more, Porthos repositioned himself, this time ducking under the other man’s shoulder so he could support him. “Nice and slow,” he commanded as he eased the two of them forward.

 

Athos was limping heavily, his right leg barely supporting him, but Porthos never faltered, and they made slow but steady progress. When they reached the rooms, Athos hesitated, asking an unspoken question that the other man easily understood. Indicating the right door with a tilt of his head, Porthos said, “Aramis is in there.” Shifting his gaze to the door across the hall, he went on. “That one’s d’Artagnan’s.”

 

It came as no surprise when Athos leaned left, and Porthos obediently turned them towards the room where the Gascon lay sleeping. Opening the door, he helped Athos through. He immediately aimed for the chair that sat next to the bed, gently easing his friend into it.

 

Athos’ eyes roamed over the young man’s quiet form, cataloguing every scratch and every inch of swollen, discoloured skin. Porthos stood quietly waiting, knowing the other man would speak when he was ready. It took nearly two minutes before Athos asked, “What did they do to him?”

 

Porthos rolled the question around in his head, considering how much to share with the older man. Clearing his throat, he replied, “He was fairly beaten up; his head and right side, mostly. He’s got some cracked and broken ribs there, as well as the broken arm. Otherwise, it was mostly confusion and dehydration.” It was the partial truth, he knew, but hopefully enough to satisfy the older man.

 

Athos sat quietly for several moments before turning his attention to the larger man, narrowing his gaze in suspicion. “What aren’t you telling me?”

 

Porthos shuffled his feet in discomfort, wishing Aramis was present so he could explain things to the other man. Before he could reply, a moan from the bed captured both men’s attention, and they watched expectantly to see if the Gascon would wake. Athos shifted, intending to place a hand on d’Artagnan’s chest, but withdrew it when Porthos caught his hand, offering a shake of his head. Frowning, Athos complied, already making a mental note to ask about the strange reaction.

 

Porthos watched and waited in silence, and although the older man found the behaviour odd, he followed his friend’s lead, wondering if there was something more of which he was unaware. It took more than a minute, but the Gascon finally drew a deeper breath, opening his eyes and wincing as he inhaled. His gaze fell immediately upon Athos, his eyes growing wide while his breathing sped up in panic. His lips moved soundlessly, and the older man could have sworn it was his name being formed.

 

Athos once more reached forward, intending to calm their young friend, but d’Artagnan lurched backwards to avoid the touch, jarring his injuries at the same time. A pained expressed crossed his face, and Athos pulled back as though he’d been burned, stunned by the Gascon’s response.

 

Moving slowly, Porthos reached for Athos’ arm, gently pulling the man to his feet while keeping his eyes on d’Artagnan the entire time. The young man watched them both with a mix of trepidation and confusion, which only served to heighten Athos’ concern. “Come on,” Porthos murmured softly as he guided the older man from the room. “I’ll explain everything in the other room.”

 

Athos’ expression telegraphed his disbelief at what was happening, but he cooperated with Porthos’ insistence at leaving the room. Several steps later found him seated in a chair at Aramis’ side, the medic propped up against several pillows and observing the older man with a look of sympathy.

 

Unable to be patient any longer, Athos pinned first Porthos and then Aramis with a hard look as he asked, “What the hell was that?”

 

“What, no hello?” the marksman asked, his words tinged with equal parts fondness and amusement. His expression fell and immediately turned serious as Athos glared in reply.

 

Porthos hung his head, unable to meet the older man’s gaze. Softly, he choked out, “I broke him.”

 

Aramis’ eyebrow rose in concert with Athos’, and moments later, the large man continued his explanation. “The kidnapping and the beatings…they messed with his ‘ead. He was hallucinating.” He paused and swallowed thickly. “He thought the Cardinal was with ‘im.”

 

“What?” Athos breathed out.

 

Porthos nodded guiltily. “I shouldn’t have told ‘im, but he kept trying to leave and go find ‘im. I figured the only way to keep him here – to keep him safe – was to tell ‘im the truth.” He shook his head sadly. “It was too much, knowin’ the truth. He wouldn’t let me touch ‘im or even come near ‘im. He’s stopped talking, and it’s all my fault.”

 

Silence fell for several long moments until Aramis spoke, his tone neutral as he said, “Truly, you have a dizzying intellect.”

 

Porthos’ head snapped up to meet the medic’s gaze, confusion painted on his face. Aramis locked eyes with his friend for several seconds before he said, “This is _not_ your fault.” Turning his attention to Athos, he explained, “d’Artagnan was held captive, drugged and beaten, and given almost no food or water. Confusion of this sort isn’t unexpected, nor is his reaction to finding out the Cardinal wasn’t real.”

 

Encompassing both men in his gaze, he continued. “With time and rest, he _will_ recover, but until then, blaming yourself – _ourselves_ – is not productive.” He waited until first Porthos and then Athos gave hesitant nods of understanding. “Good,” Aramis said with satisfaction.

 

Pinning Athos with a hard look, he took in the man’s worn appearance as he asked, “Now, what have you done to yourself?” 

 

_To be continued next Thursday..._

* * *

**A/N:** The following line is from the movie "The Princess Bride" from a conversation between the Dread Pirate Roberts and Vizzini:  “ _Truly, you have a dizzying intellect.”_

Thanks to AZGirl for spotting and correcting my typos.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blood was pooling beneath his head, the viscous fluid slowly spreading into a macabre halo of red.

Relief. That was the overriding emotion he felt when Porthos and Athos withdrew from the room, leaving him once more alone. He could feel the fine tremors that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in his bones ever since his supposed rescue. A flush of guilt rose at that, but he fiercely pushed the feeling away, too confused and fragile to deal with more than one powerful emotion at a time.

 

He exhaled slowly, mindful of his sore ribs, which burned hotly during every waking moment. Porthos had offered him a pain draught, but he’d refused, panic flaring at the idea of being drugged again. Dragging in a slow breath, d’Artagnan closed his eyes tightly, only for them to spring open almost at once when flashes of his captivity assaulted him. It took several long seconds for him to realize his breathing had increased to the point of causing him pain. Grimacing, he focused on the controlled movement of his chest, determinately slowing it down despite feeling like he was suffocating.

 

It took several painful minutes to return to normal, by which time his face and body were uncomfortably drenched in sweat. Shuddering, he dragged in another inhale as he reflected on how terrible he felt. It wasn’t simply the unrelenting, full body ache, but the mix of heat and cold that alternately assaulted his senses. From one moment to the next, he fluctuated between a fire that seemed to consume him to chills that had him shivering almost uncontrollably, despite his body being covered in sweat. His physical ills never abated quite enough for him to fall into a proper, healing sleep. But that didn’t mean he remained awake.

 

On those occasions when his body simply shut down, no longer able to deny the weariness that pervaded each sinew of every muscle and every inch of his mottled skin, he would dream. His nightmares were filled with terrifying, disjointed images that were impossible for his muddled brain to comprehend. Sometimes he dreamed of men assaulting him, unable to move away with his arms pinned by invisible bonds which he was unable to break. Those instances had him startling awake, looking for the phantoms that haunted his dreams while he felt the pain of every blow his mind had conjured.

 

Other times, his nightmares were simply black. Those instances were worse, leaving him nothing to fight against and no enemy to identify. When those dreams struck, he felt trapped in a cocoon of nothingness, where emotion overwhelmed his senses, and desolation and pain ruled. He feared those nightmares the most, and almost wished for his friends’ reassuring presence to chase his demons away. Almost.

 

He couldn’t ask for the help he so desperately needed, wondering even now if what was around him was real. Hearing that the Cardinal was dead had shaken him, badly, leaving him questioning what else his befuddled mind had imagined. Despite that, he would have normally welcomed the care being thrust upon him, at least to a point. But in this instance, being told what he could and couldn’t do, being told when to eat, drink and sleep - it was all simply an extension of the lack of control he’d suffered during his captivity. Whether or not he spoke was the only thing remaining in his complete control, so he’d simply stopped responding. Part of his brain knew this wasn’t the answer, but another part, the part ruled by irrational emotion, gained satisfaction and a measure of comfort from his small act of defiance.

 

Shifting slightly, his body reminded him once more what a bad idea that was, and he bit down on a groan of pain. His discomfort had been steadily growing, feeding an ember of fear deep in his heart that something was terribly, terribly wrong. He had no idea what, but instinctively knew that that he wasn’t feeling the way he normally felt after an encounter of this kind.

 

The thought had him snorting, a faint smile adorning his lips for a heartbeat before his face once more grew sombre and weary. Momentarily forgetting about his broken arm, he brought both hands up to scrub at his face, remembering at the last second about his injured appendage. Sighing, he let both arms drop gently into his lap, letting his head rest against the wall at the foot of his bed. He’d been siting in the same position since Athos and Porthos had left, not having enough energy or motivation to do anything else. Plus, there was the ever-present twine wrapped around his leg, which Porthos had adamantly refused to remove.

 

He tried his best to let his mind drift, not wanting to think lest he be drawn back into the nightmarish reality that marked the last few days of his life. Sadly, as soon as he gave his brain free reign, it immediately returned to the feelings of panic and confusion he’d begun to experience soon after he’d been kidnapped.

 

He groaned, releasing some portion of his misery in the low, guttural noise, but it did little to lessen his mental anguish. Knocking his head against the wall behind him once, and then a second time, he became aware of an itch lodged deep beneath his skin; it felt like fire ants were crawling over him, and he could barely stand the horrible sensation. Staying still for several moments, he tried to will the feeling away, moaning loudly when it became apparent that he could not.

 

“Argh,” he groaned, hands fumbling at the twine that wrapped around his ankle, his efforts to untie it hampered by his broken right arm. He was mindless of the pain he was causing himself, his entire focus on simply getting free so he could move. With a last frantic tug, he yanked the string from his leg, letting it drop from his fingers before scrambling to rise.

 

The movements caused the pain in his body to spike higher, but he was oblivious to the increased aches he was causing himself. Staggering upright, his chest heaving in uncontrolled inhales and exhales, he lurched towards the door, unaware of the fact that he was in nothing but his braies and linen shirt. As he flung the door open, swaying with its inward swing, he absently noted the empty hallway as he exited the room, his gaze firmly fixed on the stairs that led to freedom.

* * *

The room across from d’Artagnan’s was a stark contrast to the frenzy gripping the young man’s mind. While the Gascon sought to escape, Aramis and Porthos sat in companionable silence, neither wanting to disturb the older man who’d taken the marksman’s place on the bed.

 

Following his arrival and subsequent conversation about d’Artagnan, Aramis determinedly pressed Athos for information about his injuries and refused to let the matter rest until he’d examined the injured limb. The older man had subsequently been relieved of his weapons and doublet, forced to consume a light meal and a pain draught, before being practically tucked into bed by an amused and apologetic Porthos. All in all, the former comte had taken his friends’ fussing relatively well.

 

“Looks peaceful when he’s sleepin’,” Porthos remarked softly, sipping from the glass in his hand.

 

“Mmm,” Aramis responded, taking a small drink of the brandy the larger man had procured. “Where on earth did you find something so divine?” he asked after he’d swallowed.   

 

Porthos grinned, sharing the marksman’s poor assessment of the tavern below them. When he remained silent, wearing a self-satisfied smirk, Aramis pressed. “What’s so funny?”

 

His grin widening, Porthos replied, “I’ll tell you in a minute. First, let’s drink. Me from my glass, and you from yours.” Raising a somewhat surprised eyebrow, Aramis nonetheless complied, emptying his glass.

 

“Well?” the marksman prompted once Porthos had refilled both their cups.

 

“I planned ahead, of course,” the larger man replied, reaching beneath his chair for a small, fabric wrapped bundle. “Happy Birthday, ‘Mis.”

 

Aramis’ expression morphed from astonishment to gratitude as he realized the reason for Porthos’ thoughtfulness. “You sneaky bugger,” he said fondly, shaking his head at his friend’s gesture.

 

“I know we said we’d celebrate after this mission is over, but I didn’t want to wait until we got back,” Porthos explained. “Open it.”

 

The larger man leaned back in his seat, an expectant look on his face as he waited for his friend to unwrap his gift. Aramis took a moment to set his glass down on the floor next to his chair, before turning his attention to the bundle waiting for him. Unfolding first one side and then the other, the gift inside was revealed. “Oh, Porthos,” he breathed out.

 

Nestled in the soft fabric was a small, but wicked looking blade, its thin steel belying its deadly nature. The haft was made of a dark wood that had been diligently polished until it nearly shone, while the metal edge had been sharpened to a fine point, gleaming in the light of their room.

 

It was a smaller blade than a main gauche, possibly better suited to a woman than a man, but it was the perfect weapon to hide on one’s person and would be easily missed by anyone doing a quick search meant to disarm. Given their luck, it was the ideal gift that could mean the difference between life and death, imprisonment and freedom, and Aramis was again touched by the thought that had gone into its selection.  

 

Lifting the blade in one hand, Aramis took measure of its weight, noting how well-balanced it was. Lifting his smiling face to his friend, he announced, “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

 

Porthos flushed with pride at the man’s response to the gift, offering a murmured, “It’s nothing,” in reply.

 

Aramis knew his friend was both pleased and embarrassed by his reaction, so he simply nodded and rewrapped the small knife rather than contradicting the man’s statement. Leaning sideways to pick up his glass, the world lurched beneath him, the concussion once more making its presence made. “Whoa,” he groaned, unaware that Porthos had leapt from his seat and caught him before he could topple over.

 

Several long seconds later, the ground righted itself, and Aramis opened eyes he hadn’t realized he’d closed. Porthos was standing over him, hands on his shoulders, keeping him steady until his equilibrium returned. “You alright now?” the larger man asked, concern clear on his face.

 

Nodding carefully, the marksman was pleased to find his vision remaining steady. “Yes, sorry.”

 

Porthos snorted as he cautiously released his hold, waiting a moment before moving back and out of his friend’s personal space. “Nothing to apologize for.”

 

Aramis began to nod in agreement when a loud crash came from the hall. Porthos was moving towards the door before the marksman had even risen from his seat. Stumbling over his first steps, he followed in Porthos’ wake, ignoring the confused words coming from a now-awake Athos.

 

Swaying against the doorframe, Aramis peered into the hallway, his vision shifting and blurring in rebellion at his quick movements. Squinting, he watched Porthos cover the length of the hallway, stopping momentarily at the top of the stairwell before charging downwards. The large man’s disappearance provided all the motivation he needed to get him moving, and he kept one hand on the wall as he traversed the distance between himself and the stairs.

 

A guttural shout came from the stairwell, causing Aramis to grit his teeth in frustration as he pushed himself to move faster. He barely noticed that Athos had joined him, hobbling as quickly as he could with the support of the opposite wall. Reaching the top of the stairs at the same time, both men stopped in stunned amazement at the sight below.

 

Porthos was lying at the bottom of the staircase, and it was difficult to tell from their vantage point if he was even breathing. Blood was pooling beneath his head, the viscous fluid slowly spreading into a macabre halo of red. Partway up the stairs, two men grappled, and it took the two Inseparables a moment to recognize one of the fighters as d’Artagnan.

 

The two combatants were locked together as they fought for the upper hand, each man pushing and pulling at the other in the confined space. With a deft twist, the unknown man gained the advantage as he forced the Gascon to a lower step. A heartbeat later, d’Artagnan’s attacker landed a vicious backhand to the young man’s cheek, causing him to stagger against the wall.

 

“d’Artagnan!” Aramis shouted, readying himself to move to the Gascon’s aid. Their eyes pinned on the young man as he tried to recover from the blow, they momentarily missed his opponent’s actions, the man pulling a knife and readying to throw it at Athos.

 

“No!” d’Artagnan’s voice was filled with outrage and fear as he threw himself forward and upwards to tackle the other man. The Gascon’s cry gave his target the time he needed to prepare for the attack, causing him to shift his stance and meet the injured Musketeer head on.

 

As d’Artagnan moved upwards, his opponent stepped down to meet him, his hand driving deeply into the young man’s belly. The Gascon cried out at the impact, his knees melting beneath him to drop him to the ground. His attacker immediately turned again to his initial target, hesitating a moment later at a sharp pain at his throat. Reaching a hand upwards, his eyes widened in surprise at the warm fluid he felt there. His arm felt limply to his side a moment later, the rest of his body following as he collapsed.

 

Athos turned wide eyes to Aramis, shocked at the blade the marksman had unerringly thrown to slice into the unknown man’s neck. Aramis glanced back, offering a slight shrug as he answered the unspoken question. “Birthday present.” With that, he turned back towards the stairs, moving downwards to check on their downed friends.

_To be continued on Sunday..._

* * *

**A/N:** The following lines are from the movie "The Princess Bride" from a conversation between the Dread Pirate Roberts and Vizzini:

Dread Pirate Roberts: "What's so funny?"

Vizzini: "I'll tell you in a minute. First, let's drink. Me from my glass, and you from yours."

Thanks to AZGirl for spotting and correcting all my mistakes.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a final shaky breath, he let go, falling gratefully into the pain-free abyss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the great reactions to the last chapter. Hope you enjoy what happens next!

His walk down the hallway, and subsequent descent to the main floor, had been harder than he’d expected, the earlier adrenaline rush that had energized him quickly draining away to leave him feeling weak and worse than before. Uncertain he’d be able to continue, d’Artagnan stopped at the bottom of the stairs to lean against the wall, hovering in the small alcove where customers could make the choice to either head upstairs or into the tavern.

 

Letting his head fall against the wall, he gingerly hugged his damaged ribs with his broken arm, using his other arm to brace the injured limb. He swallowed convulsively against the nausea his pain had prompted, praying the meagre contents of his stomach stayed where they were.

 

A voice from the tavern drifted towards him, a single word attracting his attention.

 

“…Musketeer.”

 

d’Artagnan straightened as best he could, listening intently for anything more.

 

“I have a debt to settle with ‘im.” A moment of silence passed before the same man replied. “Upstairs? Thanks.”

 

The Gascon’s heart raced with the implications of what he’d heard. The voice was unknown to him, and he seemed to recall Porthos telling him that Etienne and the others had returned to the bandits’ location to retrieve their latest prisoners and search for Athos. The sound of footfalls had him searching the small space for a spot to hide, but there was nothing there. Out of time and options, d’Artagnan painfully scrambled up the stairs, managing only the first two before the unknown man appeared at the bottom.

 

Trying to act normal, despite his half-clothed state, the Gascon lifted his foot to ascend the next step, conscious of the other man following in behind him. Another step and the man was beside him, intending to pass by the injured Musketeer. Dipping his head, d’Artagnan shrunk toward the wall on one side, giving the other man the chance to pass. An inadvertent glance in the stranger’s direction had d’Artagnan sucking in a surprised gasp as recognition blossomed. It was one of his kidnappers.   

 

The abrupt inhale to his right caught the bandit’s attention and the Gascon found himself suddenly pinned by the man’s intense stare. The formerly unknown man wore a look of shock, which quickly turned to pleasure as recognition dawned. d’Artagnan didn’t think and reacted merely on instinct, panic flushing his system with a burst of adrenaline as he threw himself at the other man.

 

The bandit reacted quickly, blocking the Musketeer’s clumsy punch and retaliating with one of his own, landing a hard blow to the young man’s midsection. d’Artagnan started to curl forwards, but was stopped by the other man’s grip around his biceps. He was pushed harshly against the stairwell wall, first once and then a second time with greater force, and he swore he could feel the plaster crumbling at his back.

 

Half-stunned, he struggled to muster a proper defence, letting the man pull him forwards and using the momentum to push against the bandit, momentarily upsetting his balance so he could pull free. As soon as his attacker’s hold released, d’Artagnan turned to move up the stairs, managing two steps before he was caught from behind as the bandit grabbed him by his shirt. He fell backwards into the man, and was grateful to be stopped by his opponent’s bulk, which kept him from plummeting down the stairs.

 

Before he could resist, the man swung him around and planted his meaty fist into the side of his face, sending d’Artagnan once again sprawling against the wall with a loud thump. His vision blurred and darkened with the hit, his body having nearly exhausted the small amount of strength he’d regained since being reunited with his friends. The resulting lethargy had his limbs feeling heavy and his movements slow as he tried vainly to regain his feet after the punch that had pushed him against the wall before sliding down to land heavily on his backside.

 

His foot slipped beneath him as his struggled to rise, his head rolling along the wall at the guttural shout that came from the top of the stairs to echo all around him. “Porthos,” he breathed out breathlessly, his heart jolting happily at the arrival of the larger man. His body still uncooperative, he could only watch as the bandit raced upwards while Porthos raced down, the two intent to meet in the middle.

 

Porthos’ higher position should have given him the advantage, but it was the outlaw who turned the tables yet again. As the Musketeer approached, the bandit stopped and braced himself, reaching for the large man with both hands and using their momentum to pull the soldier off balance. Porthos registered the strategy too late and found himself suddenly plummeting out of control down the stairs.

 

d’Artagnan watched in horror as his friend fell, wincing in empathy at the sickening thud that resonated when Porthos head cracked against the bottom step before his body slid bonelessly to the landing below. Blood began to flow from underneath the large man’s skull almost immediately, and the sight had d’Artagnan again rallying his flagging energy to engage the other man.

 

The Gascon was guided by a single thought as he and his opponent grappled in a futile dance that d’Artagnan knew he could not win. His right arm was screaming at him as he willed it to retain its grip on his attacker’s forearm, his sole focus on keeping the man away from his other friends. That was how Athos and Aramis found them, d’Artagnan barely managing to hang on as his muscles were fueled by a single-minded determination to protect the men who were as dear to him as any family he’d ever had.

 

With a shift of his weight, the Gascon’s opponent managed to gain the upper hand, once more positioning himself above the young man. Pulling his arms free from d’Artagnan’s weaker hold, he delivered a viscous backhand blow that caused sparks to fly in the injured man’s vision as he reeled backwards against the wall.

 

He could hear someone shouting his name, and the sound pulled his shattered focus upwards, briefly noting the presence of his friends’ worried expressions before his gaze skittered back to the bandit who was now armed with a knife. The sight dumped a fresh batch of adrenaline into his veins as the need to protect once more brought him to his feet.

 

“No!” he screamed as he threw himself at the outlaw, with no plan other than to keep the man from harming his friends. The bandit turned towards him, welcoming the attack and driving a fist deeply into the Gascon’s stomach before pushing him away. The force of the blow pushed the air from his lungs, and d’Artagnan found his legs suddenly unable to hold him.

 

As his knees folded, he found himself crumpling to the ground, his chest still unwilling to cooperate with the necessary act of breathing. Time seemed to slow and skip for him then as darkness encroached on his vision. His whole being was focused on the simple act of drawing breath, an ability which the bandit’s blow had robbed him of. Finally, his chest stuttered in an uneven inhale, allowing blessed oxygen into his lungs. Another force of will caused another inhale, and the fog enveloping him seemed to thin a little, allowing reality back in.

 

“d’Artagnan,” a voice called, the sound accompanied by an insistent tapping on his cheek. Blinking owlishly, he peered up into Aramis’ concerned face. “d’Artagnan, please, say something,” the man pleaded.

 

“Mm,” he mumbled through thick lips, catching the distressed expression on the medic’s face which darted past him for a moment before returning. The shift in his friend’s gaze reminded him that Porthos was laying, bleeding, at the bottom of the stairs. The memory sped his heart, and he struggled to offer a more coherent reply, knowing that Aramis was torn between helping his two injured friends.

 

“I’m alright,” d’Artagnan slowly articulated, focusing hard on making his words understood. “Go, check on Porthos,” he said, his need to know the larger man’s status as keen as the medic’s.

 

Aramis hesitated for a moment, but seemed satisfied with the Gascon’s reply, squeezing his upper arm for a moment before moving away. d’Artagnan was content to lay there, his body exhausted by its recent struggles, and he shifted his gaze upwards to see Athos’ worried face looking down at him. Using his left arm, he tried to push himself into a slightly higher position against the wall, grimacing as the movement awakened an ache in his belly.

 

With a look of confusion on his face, he brought his right arm to the hurt, only to wince once more as the added pressure only increased his pain. Shakily bringing his hand up, he absently noted the splint that was now loosely hanging onto his forearm, the bandages having shifted and worked loose during his struggles.

 

“He’s alive!” Aramis called from his spot at the bottom of the stairs, and d’Artagnan found the knot of worry in his chest loosening with the news. His gaze still firmly fixed on his right hand, he squinted to focus his blurring vision, wondering at the red that painted his fingers. Slowly, as though moving through molasses, his mind connected the dots, and pain spiked hot and fierce from his belly.

 

He groaned at the fiery agony, suddenly unable to hold his arm up any longer. The injured limb dropped to knock heavily against a stair, the protest from the broken bone barely registering. His friends would be alright, and the threat had been eliminated, leaving him no reason to hang on. With a final shaky breath, he let go, falling gratefully into the pain-free abyss.

* * *

Despite his earlier flippant reply to Athos about his newly acquired blade, Aramis was fighting against the panic surging forth in his chest. Porthos and d’Artagnan were both down, Athos was barely mobile, and his own world was still shaky and fuzzy at best. Swallowing thickly against the lump in his throat, he gamely descended towards the Gascon, keeping his hands lightly on both sides of the stairwell to maintain his balance. He paused for a moment to confirm the bandit’s status, pulling his new gift from the man’s throat and wiping it hastily on the dead man’s breeches.

 

Arriving at the young man’s side, he crouched down, looking his friend over as closely as his uncooperative vision allowed. Moving a hand to the Gascon’s face, he tapped lightly at one cheek, wincing in sympathy at the bruising that covered it. “d’Artagnan,” he called, waiting a moment before trying again. “d’Artagnan, please, say something.” He recognized the note of panic in his voice, each moment spent at the young man’s side keeping from discovering Porthos’ fate.

 

To his great relief, the Gascon’s eyes fluttered open, accompanied by a low incomprehensible mumble. The response wasn’t overly comforting, something that must have shown on his face as d’Artagnan’s lips parted and he carefully said, “I’m alright.”

 

Alright wasn’t a word the medic would associate with the young man, but it was enough to satisfy him that d’Artagnan wasn’t in immediate danger of expiring. With a squeeze of his friend’s upper arm, Aramis rose carefully and made his way down the remaining stairs to check on Porthos.

 

There was so much blood. _‘Head wounds bleed a lot,’_ he chastised himself as he squatted next to the large man. Porthos’ face was completely slack, and were it not for the red halo, Aramis might have said he looked peacefully asleep. Taking a steadying breath, he reached forward to lay two fingers on his friend’s neck, waiting several moments before registering the slow thrum of a heartbeat.

 

Exhaling shakily, he called, “He’s alive!” The welcome discovery had deflated him, threatening to turn his bones to jelly, but he knew there was still much work to be done. Pausing a moment, he considered how best to proceed, painfully aware of his and Athos’ limited mobility.

 

“Aramis!” the former comte shouted from the top of the stairs. The voice sounded terrified, and not at all in control, which seemed to be Athos’ near-normal state.

 

The medic shifted his gaze upwards, surprised to see the older man slowly and painfully making his way down the stairs. “Wha’?” he began, when his comprehended the only thing that would make his brother move so quickly - d’Artagnan.

 

Pushing himself to his feet too quickly, Aramis swayed and had to catch himself on the corner of the wall until the floor stopped shifting. By the time he felt steady enough to move, Athos was at d’Artagnan’s side, awkwardly seated next to the young man with his wounded leg outstretched.

 

Beginning the climb to their position, the medic asked, “What’s wrong?” Athos momentarily raised one red hand, before replacing it to keep pressure on the hole in the Gascon’s stomach.

 

“My God, what happened?” Aramis questioned as he ascended to the step immediately below where d’Artagnan sat. “Dammit,” he cursed as his sluggish brain reminded him of the bandit’s knife, and the way the man had rammed his fist into the Gascon’s belly.

 

Athos was staring at him now, hands still pressed against the bleeding wound. “What do we do?” he asked, clearly in shock from the events and the trauma to his own body.

 

Aramis glanced towards Porthos and then back to the Gascon, noting the too-pale features that bespoke of serious injury. Suddenly, it was all too much and his concussed, overwhelmed brain refused to cooperate. “I…” he stammered, his mouth as dry as a desert. “I…” he tried again, but his thoughts were still too scattered, his years of experience and training having vanished as though they’d never been.

 

He met Athos’ gaze with wide, panicked eyes, knowing the older man was counting on him, just as his other friends were. Failing…he was failing them, and they could die for his incompetence.

 

The door to the tavern flew open below, startling them and bringing their attention to the man who’d entered. Adrenaline immediately cleared Aramis’ inconsistent vision as he stood, fingering the thin blade in his left hand that he’d retrieved from the bandit’s neck. An errant thought flickered through his mind as he said to himself, _‘I'm going to do him left-handed.’_

 

The newcomer’s gaze took in the bleeding man on the floor in front of him before tracking upwards to consider the three on the stairs. Clearing his throat, he asked, “You the Musketeers?”

 

Aramis’ heart skipped a beat as he tensed for another fight. “Who wants to know?”

 

_To be continued on Thursday..._

* * *

A/N: The following line is from the movie, "The Princess Bride", spoken by Inigo to Vizzini when referring to how he'll kill the Dread Pirate Roberts: _"I'm going to do him left-handed."_

Thank you to AZGirl for spotting and correcting my typos.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Arggh!” d’Artagnan screamed, his body bucking as he attempted to escape the pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the great reactions to the last chapter. Enjoy this next part!

Aramis sat back in the chair, every muscle in his body crying out for rest, but he had to deny it for just a while longer. His gaze was firmly locked onto Porthos’ face, the large man’s features lax. The medic had wanted nothing more than for his friend to open his eyes and confirm that he was alright, but the reality had been a far cry from the fantasy Aramis had spun in his head.

 

Porthos had writhed and gasped in pain as consciousness returned. His eyes had opened to mere slits before he’d begun to helplessly gag, his body instinctively trying to roll to the side as his stomach rebelled. It was obvious he wasn’t aware enough to comprehend what was happening.

 

Aramis had managed to turn his friend just in time to prevent him from choking on his vomit, and braced him on his side until the powerful stomach contractions had subsided. If not for the medic’s hold, Porthos would have fallen forward into the puddle of sickness, rather than being gently rolled onto his back and having his mouth and face wiped by his friend’s hand.

 

Porthos had woken twice more with similar results, and now Aramis wished nothing more than for the man to sleep. Blessed unconsciousness seemed to be the only relief available to the large man for the moment, at least until he recovered enough to be able to consume and keep liquids down, at which point Aramis would dose him with a powerful pain draught.

 

The marksman’s gaze became unfocused as he blinked his tired eyes, his own head protesting the lack of rest he’d endured during the last several hours. There had been much to do, and he hadn’t trusted anyone else to do it, but there was no way to deny that he was paying for his actions now.

 

_“Athos, keep pressure here, and don’t move your hands for any reason.” He looked up from the Gascon’s blood-soaked shirt to lock gazes with the older man. “Understand?” Athos gave a curt nod in reply, comprehending that he was literally holding the young man’s life in his hands._

_Turning his attention to the newcomers in the entryway, Aramis began issuing orders. “Lift him, slowly, taking extra care not to jostle him too much. Get him settled in a bed and apply gentle, even pressure to that head laceration. I’ll have a proper look at it as soon as I’m done with d’Artagnan.” To his satisfaction, the men moved forward to do his bidding at once, carefully picking the larger man up and carrying him through the doorway._

_Satisfied, he motioned to the remaining men. “I’ll need the two of you to carry him while I keep pressure on his wound.” At their nods, Aramis turned his focus to the older man, whispering, “It’s time.” Stiffly, the former comte shifted his hands away to be immediately replaced by the medic’s. As Athos stiffly rose, and moved out of the way to make room, he felt his hands itching with the need to be the one carrying his friend. Sadly, with his and Aramis’ wounds, it was best to leave the heavy lifting to healthier men._

_The men picked d’Artagnan up with ease, making Aramis wonder exactly how much weight the young man had lost during his captivity. As they descended the stairs, he moved with them, maintaining brutal pressure on the Gascon’s stomach to stem the flow of blood that was trying to escape his body._

_Their trip to the stable owner’s house was short, but for Aramis and especially Athos, it felt like it lasted forever. The medic could feel his hands cramping by the time they’d arrived, while the older man was breathing heavily and covered in cold sweat from the pain of walking on his injured leg._

_“Sit down,” Aramis immediately ordered, indicating with his head a chair in the corner of the room. He had no illusions about getting the man to leave – not while d’Artagnan’s future was so uncertain. As soon as the men had laid the young man on the bed and retreated, Aramis leaned over him to begin his assessment. He knew the men would return shortly with supplies, and it was his job to prepare his patient._

_Without even a thought about what he was doing, he reached once more for his birthday present, using it to cut through d’Artagnan’s shirt from bottom hem to collar. He paused momentarily as the fabric fell apart, exposing the Gascon’s bruised and battered form. ‘This never should have happened,” he thought to himself, pushing his guilt away a moment later as fresh blood bubbled up from the knife wound._

_Wiping the blade with a section of his patient’s ruined shirt, he looked up just in time to watch his helpers return, one man carrying a bucket of water, while the other carried fresh bandages and sewing supplies. Offering a distracted nod of thanks, he grabbed a clean piece of linen from the top of the stack, moving immediately to wipe at the knife wound._

_Almost as quickly as he’d wiped the blood away, more of it oozed out to obscure its source. Making a noise of frustration, he tried again with the same result. “Have to get this bleeding stopped,” he muttered to himself. A third swipe was just as ineffective as the first two, and he swore softly under his breath, choosing to press firmly against the wound once more._

_Shifting his attention away from his patient for a moment, he glanced in Athos’ direction, taking in the tense set of the man’s shoulders and jaw. The older man wouldn’t like what he was about to say, but Aramis needed to get the bleeding stopped sooner rather than later, and it was unlikely the flow would slow down enough to allow him to stitch it closed._

_Swallowing, he cleared his throat, addressing one of the two men who’d brought supplies and remained to offer further assistance. “Bring me some black powder,” he said, surprised that his voice had remained steady given the rapid beat of his heart._

_“What?” Athos asked, immediately leaning forward in his seat in preparation to rise. He’d never seen anyone use black powder to cauterize a wound before Catherine had, however it appeared the medic was familiar with the practice._

_“Stay there,” Aramis ordered, his tone sharp. “The bleeding isn’t slowing, and I need to do something quickly. It’s less than ideal, I’ll grant you,” he continued, feeling the first stirrings of hysterical laughter attempting to bubble to the surface. Pushing the inappropriate desire away, he finished, “This is the fastest way, and his best chance for survival.”_

_Athos’ gaze shifted to the Gascon, his pale features evident even in the candlelight that chased the room’s shadows away. Unbidden, he recalled the intense pain of having his leg wound cauterized, and felt bile suddenly rise in his throat. Swallowing with difficulty, he asked, “Isn’t there any other way?” Even as he voiced the question, he knew the answer he would receive._

_His features etched with compassion, Aramis slowly shook his head. “I’m sorry, Athos, but it really is the best option.”_

_The former comte gave a slight nod, having expected the answer, but still holding out hope the medic would find an alternative solution. Pushing himself with difficulty to his feet, he began the journey across the room to d’Artagnan’s bed._

_“Athos, what are you doing?” Aramis asked, equal parts surprised and annoyed that the older man refused to sit still._

_Athos didn’t answer, but focused instead of containing his sounds of pain as each step sent a sharp spike of agony through his leg. Arriving at the bed, he carefully lowered himself down onto the mattress next to d’Artagnan’s feet. Finally responding to the medic’s question, he explained, “You’ll need help to cauterize the wound.”_

_Recognizing the truth in his friend’s words, Aramis didn’t argue and simply focused on stemming the flow of blood until the powder arrived. The man returned with the requested item, and it was clear by his body language that he understood its purpose. Handing a small pouch to the medic, the man awkwardly asked, “Do you want me to stay?” Motioning to the unconscious man on the bed, he went on, “To help?”_

_One look at Athos’ grim expression had Aramis declining the man’s offer. “No, thank you.” What they were about to do would be exceptionally painful, but that pain would not be observed by anyone outside their brotherhood._

_When they were once more alone, Aramis turned his attention back to the cloth he held over the wound in d’Artagnan’s stomach, which had entered to the right of the young man’s belly button, almost above his hip. It was a minor stroke of luck and increased the chances that no vital organs had been damaged. Lifting the linen briefly, he confirmed that the flow of blood hadn’t slowed and quickly replaced the cloth. “Can you hold this for a moment,” he asked, prompting the older man to shift closer so he could lay his hand over top of the medic’s._

_Aramis slipped his hand free, Athos increasing the pressure he was exerting. The medic grabbed another cloth, wiping his hands before moving the candle on the bedside table closer, and then dipping his fingers into the pouch of powder. “Ready?” he asked, receiving a nod from the older man. “Now,” he said._

_As though rehearsed, Athos lifted the sodden bandage away, using its edge to wipe one last time at the wetness coating the young man’s skin. Aramis’ hand moved into place at once, dropping the black powder on top of the welling wound before reaching for the lit candlestick next to him. In the meantime, Athos had dropped the wet linen on the floor and turned to lay his body across d’Artagnan’s legs. Mimicking the older man’s position but across the young man’s chest, Aramis inhaled deeply before touching the candle’s flame to the powder._

_“Arggh!” d’Artagnan screamed, his body bucking as he attempted to escape the pain. Aramis cringed and grit his teeth and he pushed down, noting Athos doing the same next to him. As the seconds ticked by, the Gascon’s movements grew weaker until all that remained was a limp, whimpering form beneath their combined weights._

_Shifting up, Aramis replaced the candle on the table, automatically bringing his free hand to his patient’s forehead as he brushed away the locks of hair that stuck to the young man’s sweaty face. Moments later, he felt a nudging at his other arm where Athos was handing him a clean, damp cloth. Taking it with a look of gratitude, he wiped it across d’Artagnan’s face and upper chest, all the while murmuring soft words of comfort as the whimpers continued._

_Finished, he sat back, needing a moment to collect himself after what they’d just done. Once more, he was prodded, bringing his attention back to the older man. “Switch places with me,” Athos ordered, already preparing to move nearer to the head of the bed. Aramis considered arguing, but the thought quickly passed as he realized there was nothing and no one who would keep these two men apart._

_Wearily, he rose to his feet, grateful when the ground stayed level. d’Artagnan’s wound would need to be checked and bandaged, but for now he would give Athos time to reconnect with their brother. “I’m going to check on Porthos,” he said, receiving an absentminded wave from the other man. Knowing the Gascon was in good hands, he exited the room, closing the door softly behind him._

 

Aramis’ head dipped towards his chest, rousing him from the doze he’d been about to fall into. _‘Good Lord, but I’m tired,’_ he thought to himself as he barely pushed back the veil of darkness that had been beckoning him. He knew he would be unable to resist for much longer, and considered simply slipping into the bed next to his slumbering friend, allowing him to still care for the ailing man. As his eyes lost their focus once more, he was startled by a soft groan, the first signs that Porthos was waking.

 

Leaning forward, Aramis clasped the hand closest to him, hoping to anchor his friend as awareness returned. From experience, he knew how painful consciousness would be, and hoped to at least offer the man some tiny bit of comfort as he struggled to wake. Another minute passed, with Porthos showing increasing signs of awareness, which were unfortunately accompanied by pain if his sounds of discomfort were anything to go by.

 

As the larger man’s eyelids fluttered, Aramis prepared himself to move, lest his friend’s wakening was again accompanied by extreme nausea. He was pleasantly surprised when Porthos managed to open his eyes to half-mast and continued to lay calmly, while sleepily blinking at him. “How are you feeling?” Aramis murmured, mindful of his friend’s aching skull.

 

Porthos lay quietly for a moment before licking dry lips, no doubt registering the foul taste in his mouth that heralded having been sick. “Water?” he croaked, and Aramis gave a small nod, reaching for the cup on the bedside table before helping the large man take a couple sips.

 

“Better?” he asked once he’d laid Porthos’ head gently back onto the pillow.

 

“Yeah,” the large man replied. “Thanks.” Silence descended, and Aramis could tell his friend was trying to understand why he felt so terrible. A minute later, Porthos asked, “What happened?”

 

Aramis’ lips turned up in a slight smile at the expected question. “You don’t remember?” The large man thought for a moment before attempting to shake his head, stopping the movement almost as soon as it had begun as the pain in his skull spiked.

 

The medic squeezed Porthos’ hand, having once more retaken his hold, as he waited for the large man to ride out the newest wave of pain. “Ouch,” he breathed out, when the ache had dulled.

 

“Yes, best not to move unnecessarily,” Aramis agreed, given his friend’s hand another squeeze. “We had another run in with the bandits that took d’Artagnan,” he began, watching the large man for any signs of distress. “I didn’t see what happened, but you ended up at the bottom of the stairs and bled all over the entryway floor.”

 

“I did?” Porthos asked softly.

 

“You did,” Aramis confirmed. “Scared me half to death,” he admitted.

 

“Sorry,” the larger man said, squeezing his friend’s hand in return. “You alright?”

 

“Yes, I’m fine,” he replied, intentionally avoiding any mention of d’Artagnan. He wouldn’t lie to his friend if asked directly about the Gascon, but if Porthos didn’t ask, he would let the man rest without worry for now.

 

“Good,” the large man breathed out. “Concussion?” he asked, raising his free hand upwards to try and touch his head.

 

“Yes, and it’s a bad one if the past few hours are any indication,” Aramis replied, catching his friend’s wandering hand before it could prod at the stitched laceration.

 

“Sick?” Porthos asked, receiving a nod in reply. “No wonder my stomach feels so empty.”

 

Aramis raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “Are you honestly saying you’re hungry right now?”

 

The large man lifted a shoulder in a feeble shrug as he replied, “I could go for a nice MLT – mutton, lettuce and tomato sandwich, when the mutton is nice and lean, and the tomato is ripe. They’re so perky. I love that.”

 

Aramis spluttered at his friend’s words, vividly recalling how the man’s stomach had tried to turn itself inside out just a few hours earlier. “You couldn’t…” he began, stopping when a hint of a grin appeared on the large man’s face. Chuckling softly, he said with greater confidence, “No, you couldn’t.”

 

“No,” Porthos agreed, pleased that he’d lightened his friend’s mood. “Maybe just some more water for now?”

 

“I can do better than that,” the medic countered. “I’ll have some hot water brought and make you a pain draught if you think you can keep it down.”

 

“Mm,” Porthos replied, his eyelids beginning to droop, before they opened again as the marksman’s words registered. “Brought? Where are we?”

 

Aramis shook his head slowly, still mindful of his own healing concussion. “Stable owner’s house.” At the confused expression on the large man’s face, he elaborated. “He showed up just after we’d dealt with the bandit, offering us any aid we required. Apparently, his sister was Athos’ saviour and she’d tucked a letter into the tack of the horse she loaned him, asking her brother to help the Musketeers with anything they requested. These accommodations are a vast improvement over what we had before.”

 

He watched as the large man’s lids closed again, barely opening as Porthos slurred, “Tha’s lucky.”

 

Aramis sat silently as he watched his friend lose his battle with sleep, squeezing his hand a last time before settling back to once more watch over him.

 

_To be continued on Sunday..._

* * *

**A/N:** The following line is from the movie, "The Princess Bride", by Miracle Max who says there’s nothing greater in the world than true love except: _“…a nice MLT---mutton, lettuce and tomato sandwich, when the mutton is nice and lean, and the tomato is ripe. They're so perky. I love that.”_

Thank you to AZGirl for spotting and correcting my typos.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Gascon stared helplessly at the older man’s back, imagining the amount of rage he must have incited to drive Athos from his side while he was hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to those who are continuing to read, and my gratitude to those who take the time leave a comment. Hope you enjoy this next part!

Waking was a difficult and unappealing venture, and d’Artagnan did his best to avoid it at all costs. His body felt heavy, but not uncomfortably so. He couldn’t comprehend what he was laying on, but it was comfortable and he was warm, covered by something thick and soft that came up to his chin. He could tell the room around him was dimly lit, but not completely dark, and that darkness beckoned him alluringly. With a soft sigh, he gave in and slipped into the black.

 

His next attempt at awareness was more insistent than the last, accompanied by dull aches centering on his arm and belly. He tried to ignore the discomfort that thrummed irritatingly from both spots, but the more he tried to hide from the pain, the sharper it became. Unknowingly, he groaned; the sound reverberated through his chest and skull, making him wince. His breathing hitched as he registered the hot burn emanating from one side of his stomach. Moaning long and low at the throb, he pinched his eyes even more tightly closed, as his heartrate and breathing both increased with the pain.

 

Moments later he felt his head raised and something was pressed to his lips. He was ordered to drink, and his lips automatically parted, his body suddenly aware of how thirsty he was. The liquid was bitter, but he didn’t care, simply grateful to have something to wet his dry mouth and throat. He drank until the cup was pulled away, not even aware enough to wonder who’d just helped him. With his head replaced on the pillow and his thirst quenched, he let himself drift again.

 

It was the sound of someone speaking that next pulled back the veil of darkness, and he allowed the words flow over him as he remained in a half-dozing state.

 

“I should have done more to find you,” Athos muttered guiltily from the chair at d’Artagnan’s side. “I know you’ll point out that I was hurt, and that it wasn’t my fault, but that’s little consolation after seeing the evidence of what those men, those animals, did to you.”

 

The former comte rubbed at his dry eyes with the fingers of one hand, trying and failing to remove some of the grit that seemed to have been deposited there. He’d been sitting in the same position for hours, unwilling to leave d’Artagnan’s side. Aramis had returned briefly to properly dress the Gascon’s wound and replace the splint on the young man’s arm. Athos had watched the medic work with an intensity that almost made the other man nervous, but both knew the older man’s glare was simply a manifestation of his guilt.

 

d’Artagnan had been hurt not once, but twice, and Athos had been unable to prevent it from happening either time. Nothing his friends could say would stop him from blaming himself as Thomas’ words from the previous night continued to unceasingly rule his thoughts, no matter how much he tried to push them away.

 

Sighing, he sat up slightly straighter in his chair, unsuccessfully stretching tense back muscles. “Thomas was right,” he breathed out, finally giving voice to the memories haunting him. “I failed him, and I failed you, too. Just another brother I wasn’t able to protect.”

 

A hint of a frown appeared on the Gascon’s face as the words he was hearing turned from comforting to concerning. _‘Why was Athos talking about his dead brother, and who was this other brother he’d been unable to protect?’_ The thoughts prompted him to greater awareness, and he racked his sluggish brain to provide the answers he sought.

 

The pain he vaguely recalled from earlier registered, and he focused on it, using it to claw his way back to consciousness. _‘There had been a threat, and a fight, and someone had fallen down the stairs…hadn’t they?’_ The memories were fractured and fuzzy, refusing to come fully into focus, making them as difficult to grasp as the wisps of a thick fog.

 

Pushing himself, he concentrated harder, finally bringing forth the image of Porthos lying motionless on the ground, his head surrounded by a backdrop of bright red. His heart beat sped up as he connected the memory to Athos’ words – was Porthos the brother Athos had been unable to save? On the verge of panic, his eyes snapped open at the same time as he was already trying to raise his upper body from the bed.

 

“Arggh,” he moaned as the pain of his injuries spiked, unaware that he’d only managed to raise himself a few inches from the mattress before collapsing back against it.

 

“d’Artagnan, be calm,” Athos ordered, his tone compassionate and taking the sting from his words. He’d been shocked by the Gascon’s abrupt shift from sleep to wakefulness. Despite his surprise, he’d reacted quickly, placing both hands on the young man’s shoulders to press him back against the bed.

 

Athos waited until the lines of pain around d’Artagnan’s eyes smoothed and his breathing slowed, indicating the pain had eased. Aramis had given the Gascon a pain draught earlier, but it was no match for the young man’s ill-advised attempts to sit up. Not wanting a repeat of what had just happened, Athos removed one hand while the other shifted to rest lightly on his friend’s chest. “How is your pain?” he asked once he felt confident the Gascon was aware enough to respond.

 

“Better,” d’Artagnan breathed out, his eyes opening to land on the older man’s worried face. “Porthos?” he asked, needing to know if what he’d remembered had actually come to pass.

 

Raising one eyebrow slightly in surprise, Athos replied, “Resting next door.” The young man looked unconvinced, so he added, “It appears Aramis was correct about the thickness of his skull.”

 

d’Artagnan huffed out a small laugh as he said, “Hard head.”

 

Athos’ eyes crinkled with amusement as he agreed. “Yes, and it worked in our favour, for once.” Despite the lightness of his words, d’Artagnan picked up on the serious undercurrent.

 

“Was anyone else hurt?” he questioned, the unidentified feeling of danger still lurking in his befuddled brain.

 

Athos narrowed his eyes at the younger man. “Do you remember the other man?” At the Gascon’s look of confusion, the older man nodded, having expected that answer. “Another of the bandits arrived at the tavern. Seems the owner was only too willing to exchange information about our whereabouts for a few coins. For some reason, you were out of your room.” He paused, waiting expectantly for an explanation.

 

d’Artagnan recalled the need to be free although he couldn’t quite explain its source. Sensing that anything he said would be deemed inadequate, he stayed silent, waiting for Athos to continue.

 

Swallowing down a sigh of frustration when the Gascon said nothing, Athos went on. “I assume you must have recognized him…”

 

“Not at first,” the young man interrupted, recalling how he’d tried to hide his face from the man. “He recognized me before I could place him.”

 

“Ah,” Athos replied. “A fight ensued, and the ruckus alerted Porthos and Aramis. I was sleeping at the time, but their hasty departure from the room woke me. By the time Aramis and I arrived at the top of the stairs, Porthos was at the bottom and you were engaged with the bandit.”

 

A slight grin appeared on d’Artagnan’s face as he cheekily asked, “Did I win?”

 

The question was unexpected and stoked the worry that had been Athos’ constant companion for hours. His resulting rebuke was harsh as he said, “Hardly. You’re lucky Aramis was armed and was able to kill the man before he’d killed you.”

 

His own fears had been assuaged by Athos’ presence and news of Porthos’ relative well-being, and the Gascon was taken aback by the sharp retort. By all accounts, they’d come out the victors, leaving d’Artagnan confused by his mentor’s sharp response. Allowing some of his bewilderment to show on his face, he asked, “But we’re safe now, right?” Athos’ lips were pressed into a thin line as he offered a curt nod. “And Porthos will be alright?” He received another nod. Licking his lips as he hesitated, he finally said, “Then I don’t understand the problem.”

 

Athos’ entire body language changed as he sat fully upright in his chair, removing the hand that had lain on the Gascon’s chest. Absently, d’Artagnan registered the coolness that replaced the warmth of his brother’s touch, even as he marvelled at the anger that seemed to taking over his friend’s features. The former comte was now sitting ramrod straight, his hands clasped together so tightly that the skin of his knuckles had turned white. He’d looked away, staring at some point on the wall across the room, his jaw clenched so tightly that d’Artagnan worried for his friend’s molars.

 

“Athos,” he began softly. “What’s wrong?” The older man remained silent and steadfastly kept his gaze turned away. The reaction made the Gascon’s stomach churn and his heart ache, never feeling so alone despite being with someone he considered family. “I’m sorry,” he tried again, hoping the other man would speak to him instead of shutting him out.

 

“What could you possibly have to apologize for?” Athos nearly spat, his words even and clipped as he finally turned back to face the younger man.

 

d’Artagnan had no clue what he’d done, but he’d obviously upset the other man. Doing his best to maintain a neutral expression, he shrugged slightly as he replied, “For making you angry.”

 

If possible, Athos’ features twisted into a mask of even greater anger. Unable to sit still any longer, he propelled himself to his feet, staggering heavily at the stiffness in his injured leg. Catching himself of the back of the chair, he waited a moment until he felt confident the leg would hold him before limping unsteadily towards the window on the other side of the room.

 

The Gascon stared helplessly at the older man’s back, imagining the amount of rage he must have incited to drive Athos from his side while he was hurt. He desperately wanted to ask his friend if he was alright, but hesitated to say anything else that would make things worse. Instead, he forced himself to stay silent, worrying his bottom lip as he prayed for the insight to fix what he’d done.

 

Several minutes passed, but to d’Artagnan they felt like an eternity. Not only was he resolved not to speak, but he was now actively working to contain his sounds of pain as the tension in his body overrode the effectiveness of the pain draught he’d consumed. Unable to remain quiet any longer, he groaned as the muscles around his broken arm spasmed. The effect on Athos was instantaneous, the man spinning around quickly, only to have to catch himself on the windowsill as his balance was once again upset.

 

d’Artagnan looked at him with fear-filled eyes, angry with himself for the sound of pain that had escaped him. “Sorry,” he said, hoping this apology would be better received than the last one.

 

Athos’ body seemed to crumple as the tension bled from his muscles, replaced by fatigue and the effects of too many hours of stress and worry. He hung his head even as he shook it slowly, leaving the Gascon even more confused and worried than before. “Athos, are you alright?” he asked hesitantly, aching to help his friend and to fix whatever he’d broken between them.

 

Lifting his eyes to land on the younger man, he replied, “No, I’m not.” He could see the fear his words had inspired in the Gascon, and hurried to correct the misunderstanding he’d just created. “No, there’s nothing to fear,” he said, raising a hand to keep the other man in place as he hobbled back to his seat. Settling into it heavily, his right hand reached for his thigh, squeezing it above the slowly-healing wound as he tried to push away the pain that moving had ignited.

 

d’Artagnan had remained where he was, but Athos could practically feel the tension wafting from him in waves. Drawing a deep, steadying breath, he began his explanation. “Physically, I’ll be fine.” He motioned to his injured leg with a hand. “This will heal and is nothing more than a minor irritant for now.” The Gascon’s eyes widened in disbelief, but he bit his tongue and didn’t contradict what he was hearing.

 

“It is I who should be apologizing to you, d’Artagnan, not the other way around,” Athos said, his expression clearly contrite and filled with doubt. “Because of me, you suffered at the hands of those bandits for far longer than you should have. Then, our resources were further compromised and divided because I didn’t watch where I was going.” He glanced meaningfully down at his leg, and the Gascon guessed the comment had something to do with how the older man had been injured.

 

“It was only blind luck that I didn’t kill myself or that infection didn’t finish the job,” the former comte went on. “But Thomas was right.”

 

Unable to stay quiet any longer, d’Artagnan said, “Athos, Thomas is gone.”

 

The older man smiled bitterly as he slowly nodded. “You’re right, he is.” He fell silent for several long moments, he gaze growing unfocused as he carded his fingers through his tangled curls. Dropping his hands to his lap, he continued. “I was delirious with fever, but that doesn’t make what I imagined any less true. I wasn’t able to protect him, and the same applies to you. It was only by God’s grace that you found your way back to us and weren’t killed earlier.”

 

d’Artagnan stared at his friend for over a minute, taking in the expression of defeat and the way in which the older man’s shoulders slumped inwards, making him somehow appear old and fragile. It was not the Athos he knew, and the realization fueled both his anger and his words. “I’ve known you to be many things, Athos. Brave almost to a fault; cold and rational when fighting and strategizing; drowning in self-pity when deep into your cups; but arrogant isn’t a word I’d ever associated with you, until now.”

 

The statement had Athos jerking his head upwards from his examination of his folded hands, the expression on his face one of shock and betrayal. It was exactly what d’Artagnan had hoped for. “What do you mean, arrogant?” the older man asked, some of the fire back in his words and posture.

 

“I mean, arrogant,” the Gascon restated, pausing for a moment for effect. “I realize you come from nobility and were responsible for your land and those who lived on it, but I never realized you believed yourself to be God.”

 

“What?” the former comte sputtered, completely off-balance from the young man’s words.

 

“Are you saying it was within your power to prevent my kidnapping?” the Gascon asked. Without waiting for an answer, he plowed ahead. “Or knew my whereabouts and decided to dally before attempting a rescue?” Athos’ face paled, confirming what d’Artagnan had already known. “No? How about stopping the bandits from drugging and beating me until I dredged up a hallucination of my own?” At the older man’s flinch, he had his confirmation that Athos was also aware he’d believed the Cardinal was with him.

 

“No? Hmm, I didn’t think so,” d’Artagnan concluded. “Then tell me what, exactly, you did or didn’t do that put me in harm’s way, other than expecting me to do my duty.”

 

Athos looked lost, and the Gascon’s heart went out to his friend. He wanted desperately to reassure the older man that everything was alright, but knew his friend wouldn’t currently respond to kindness. Instead, he settled down to wait, focusing on the growing pain of his injuries to temper his impatience.

 

“I…” Athos began, only to clamp his lips closed a moment later. “I was in charge,” he finally managed.

 

“Yes, you were,” d’Artagnan conceded evenly.

 

“It was my responsibility to keep you safe. To find you when you’d been taken, and to guard you once you’d been found,” the older man continued, gaining confidence the more he spoke. “You nearly died, and it would have been my fault if you had.”

 

“No,” the Gascon countered, his gaze steely. To Athos’ credit, he didn’t argue, and he didn’t look away, although every fibre of his body begged to be removed from his current situation. Fleetingly, he wished for a drink, craving the oblivion that wine would bring him.

 

As though sensing the older man’s thoughts, d’Artagnan repeated, “No. Can you honestly tell me you could have prevented my capture? That you didn’t do everything in your power to locate me once I was gone?” He could see his words beginning to penetrate the older man’s walls, and hurriedly continued before he lost momentum. Softening his tone, he asked, “Can you truthfully say you believed us to still be in danger here, and that you wouldn’t have jumped between me and that bandit if you’d been able to?”

 

Though it cost him, the Gascon pushed himself up onto one elbow and leaned closer to his friend, reaching out to clasp the older man’s forearm with his left hand. Holding his position, he ignored the protests of his ailing body, knowing the next few moments would be critical as he waited for Athos to process what he’d been told. Beads of sweat appeared at his temples as the protests of his body grew, but his entire focus was on his friend’s bowed head.

 

Luckily, Athos hadn’t withdrawn from his touch, something d’Artagnan took as a good sign, but his strength was quickly deserting him. So focused was he on staying still that he startled when the older man’s hand landed over top of the one that encircled Athos’ wrist. “You’re trembling,” the former comte said, taking a moment to squeeze the Gascon’s hand before slowly pulling it free from his wrist.

 

With a gentleness belied by Athos’ gruff exterior, he stood and positioned the young man back onto the bed, taking a moment to pull the blanket back up to his chin when he was done. d’Artagnan lacked the strength to fight him, but was still uncertain about his friend’s mental state. Liking his lips nervously, he looked up at the man, and said the first thing that came to mind. “Stay?”

 

As he carefully retook his seat next to the younger man’s side, Athos’ lips quirked into a slight grin. Meeting the Gascon’s gaze, he replied, “As you wish.”

 

He had no idea why the words brought him such comfort, but they did, and without hesitation, d’Artagnan allowed his eyes to close, gratefully letting sleep overtake him.

 

_To be continued on Sunday to avoid any conflict that US readers may have with Thanksgiving celebrations..._

* * *

**A/N:** The following line is from the movie, “The Princess Bride”: _“As you wish.”_

Thanks to AZGirl for spotting and correcting all my mistakes.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Breathe,” Athos coached softly, keeping the Gascon in place with one hand, while his other remained entwined in his friend’s grip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for not posting a chapter last Thursday, and I hope those who celebrated had a wonderful Thanksgiving. Hope you enjoy this last part!

 

Morning found all four Inseparables in beds, asleep. Aramis had finally succumbed to his fatigue in the early hours approaching dawn. He’d returned to Athos and d’Artagnan’s room in time to hear part of their conversation, and then slowly withdrawn before the men registered his presence. That had brought him back to Porthos’ side, where he’d retaken his earlier seat.

 

Porthos had woken just as his friend was about to crash to the floor from his chair and had ordered the man into the bed next to him, completely unwilling to hear any sort of argument. In truth, Aramis hadn’t protested particularly hard, but he had mentioned what he’d overheard in the next room. Porthos had been his usual practical self, simply stating, “There’s been too many ghosts dredged up lately, if you ask me.” There seemed nothing more to say, so Aramis took a moment to remove his boots and breeches before falling into bed and into a deep slumber.

 

In the next room, Athos had similarly been ordered to bed, the pain from his leg increasing with every waking minute until he was tempted to have the limb removed. d’Artagnan had merely rolled his eyes in response to the exaggerated statement, understanding well the effect that the unrelenting ache of a fresh injury could have on even the most rational of men. If asked later, none of the men would admit it was one of the best sleeps they’d experienced in recent weeks.

 

Porthos and Aramis were awoken by the sound of hurried knocking on their door, before the slim, wooden barrier was pushed out of the way, revealing the countenance of a worried Musketeer. Porthos’ vision was still too blurry to make out the man’s features, and he tensed in bed as he racked his brain for the location of his weapons. Next to him, he felt Aramis perceptibly relaxing, and hoped that was a good sign.

 

“Etienne, it’s good to see you,” the marksman greeted the newcomer.

 

Squinting, Porthos almost believed he could recognize the man now that Aramis had identified him. “Aramis, Porthos, it’s good to see you both safe,” Etienne replied, clearly searching for the Gascon.

 

“d’Artagnan and Athos are in the next room,” the marksman answered the unspoken question as he flipped back the blanket and turned to sit upright on the edge of the bed. Taking a moment to rub the sleep from his eyes, he refocused on their comrade as he asked, “You’ve just returned?”

 

Etienne nodded before explaining. “I believed myself to be bringing bad news,” he began. “We searched but found no sign of Athos.” He grinned broadly. “Now I know why.”

 

Aramis nodded with a matching grin of his own. “He made his way back yesterday afternoon and tracked us down at the tavern.” The statement brought a frown to the other man’s face.

 

“About that,” Etienne said. “How is it that you came to be here instead?”

 

Beside Aramis, Porthos had managed to maneuver himself upright, now resting against the wall at the head of the bed. “Turns out the owner of the stable is the brother of the woman who helped Athos. Who knew?” he ended, leaving Etienne’s features just as puzzled as before he’d spoken.

 

Aramis noticed the confusion on the other man’s face. “Give us a few minutes to get dressed and we’ll be happy to explain everything.” Turning his attention to Porthos, he asked, “Do you think you can manage some stairs and then something to eat?”

 

The medic was certain that his friend paled at the question, but Porthos gamely nodded, wincing as the movement jarred his fragile skull. Returning his gaze to Etienne, Aramis requested, “Please ask for some water to be boiled, and see if we can have food brought to d’Artagnan’s room. Nothing too heavy, I think.” Etienne gave a nod of acknowledgement before backing out of the room.

 

Porthos was bent forward, holding his aching head in both hands. His words were mumbled as he chastised his friend, “I could’ve gone downstairs.”

 

“Yes,” Aramis agreed cheekily. “But I’m certain I could not have gotten you back to your bed once you fainted from the pain.”

 

“Passed out,” the larger man corrected, his head still bent to his chest.

 

“Mmm,” the marksman agreed with a smile, recalling the conversation they’d had when he’d first been hurt. “I’m going to go check on the others,” he said as he pulled on his breeches. “Why don’t you lie back down and see if you can bring that throbbing in your head under control.”

 

Wordlessly, Porthos shifted to lay on his side, bringing a frown to the medic’s face. Aramis’ head was still tender, but ten times better than it had been, and while he craved more sleep, his sense of responsibility for the others prompted him into action. Pulling on his boots, he reached a hand over to Porthos’ upper arm, giving it a quick squeeze. “I’ll be back shortly with something for the pain,” he said softly. The larger man grunted lowly in reply, his eyes clenched tightly closed as he rode out the pain in his skull.

 

Aramis slipped quietly from the room, entering the next one just as stealthily, although it turned out to be an unnecessary precaution. Both men were awake, and d’Artagnan seemed to be trying to dissuade Athos from rising. The older man had somehow already managed to pull his breeches on, and Aramis cringed in sympathy at the bloodied rip that clearly marked the location of the man’s injury. Athos was now struggling to pull on his boots, which seemed an apt time for the medic to interrupt.

 

Leaning against the doorjamb of the entrance, he loudly cleared his throat, causing both men to look in his direction. “Aramis, thank God you’re here,” d’Artagnan greeted him. “Please tell Athos that he needs to rest that leg and shouldn’t be moving about.”

 

Aramis turned a raised eyebrow to the older man, asking an unspoken question. “I’m fine,” Athos tersely replied through gritted teeth. Even from this distance, the medic could make out the sheen of sweat on his friend’s face, heralding a much greater level of misery than the older man was admitting to.

 

“I doubt that,” Aramis declared, pushing himself away from the support of the doorway to cross the distance between them. Pulling a chair closer, he positioned himself directly in front of the former comte, one hand moving to the rip in Athos’ breeches as soon as he was seated. “Would have been better if you’d kept these off,” the medic remarked.

 

Athos’ placed his hand on top of Aramis’, hiding the hole in his breeches. Locking gazes with the marksman, he repeated, “I’m fine.”

 

Aramis looked away from his friend, shifting slightly to meet d’Artagnan’s concerned expression. The Gascon was far too pale for his liking and lay partially upright, slumped against the pillows at his back. One hand covered the wound in his side, and it was obvious from the lines around his eyes that the pain draught he’d administered earlier had worn off. Despite that, the Gascon seemed resolute about keeping Athos off his leg.

 

Returning his attention to the older man, Aramis said evenly, “d’Artagnan would appear to disagree with your assessment.” He paused, waiting to see the effect of his words. Athos’ expression thawed slightly, and Aramis could sense his friend’s hesitation about continuing in his goal of rising. “As a matter of fact,” the medic went on, “I believe he’s concerned for your welfare. Far more than you seem to be right now.” Leaning closer, he whispered in the older man’s ear, “Additional stress will only set back his recovery.”

 

Pulling back, Aramis waited again, watching as acceptance appeared on Athos’ face as he removed his hand from atop the medic’s. Aramis gave a slight nod of approval as he explained, “Etienne and the others are back. I’ve asked him to arrange food and drink and to have it brought up here.” He saw Athos draw breath to argue and cut him off before any words of complaint could be uttered. “Porthos isn’t in any condition to be traipsing up and down stairs. Since this room is the larger of the two, it makes sense for us to eat here.”

 

Sighing in resignation, Athos gave a nod. “Good,” Aramis said, a bright smile appearing on his face. I should have just enough time to check your wounds before the food arrives.” Over Athos’ shoulder, the medic could see a wide grin on the Gascon’s face. “That means you too, d’Artagnan.” The grin on the younger man’s face faltered, but the medic knew their friend would allow him to do what needed to be done.

 

Wound checks and eating meals in d’Artagnan and Athos’ room became their routine for the next few days. Etienne and the others had departed the same day they’d arrived, escorting their prisoners back to Paris, and promising to inform Treville that the Inseparables would follow several days later. Aramis was certain he was currently the only one of the four who could ride a horse, and it was unlikely, even after several days had passed, that d’Artagnan would be riding anywhere.

 

After four days of undisturbed rest and proper food, Aramis accepted the stable-owner’s offer of a cart, which would allow them to start their trip to Paris. Their horses were tied to the back, while Porthos and Aramis sat up front, and Athos watched over d’Artagnan in the back.

 

Their progress was slow, and their journey took twice as long as normal, but the medic refused to compromise his friends’ health because of their haste to return. As it was, d’Artagnan was barely tolerating the trip, drawing on Athos’ strength when the pain became too great.

 

_d’Artagnan moaned lowly, trying to roll to his side to protect his tender midsection from the endless jarring of the wooden planks beneath him._

 

_“Breathe,” Athos coached softly, keeping the Gascon in place with one hand, while his other remained entwined in his friend’s grip. “Breathe,” he commanded again, as d’Artagnan squeezed his hand harder, riding out the fiery pain in his gut._

 

_The young man gasped, and his hand grew lax, signalling that the current spike of pain had temporarily released its hold. Sadly, it would return just as it had every other time before, and Athos knew he would remain at his friend’s side to offer whatever comfort he could._

_Removing his hand from the Gascon’s hold, the former comte wet a cloth and drew it across his friend’s face and neck, washing away the sweat that clung to the gaunt features. Though Aramis was satisfied with d’Artagnan’s progress, his injuries were still in the early stages of healing, and the Gascon had been battling a low-grade fever for the past couple of days. The medic had been relentless about cleaning the young man’s knife wound, and pronounced it free from infection, stating that a fever was to be expected given the severity of the boy’s wounds. The statement did little to assuage the fear in Athos’ chest._

_“Athos,” d’Artagnan murmured, bringing the older man from his thoughts. “I’ll be fine,” he said, making Athos’ lips quirk in silent amusement at the young man’s mindreading skills._

_“Yes, you will be,” the former comte agreed, catching d’Artagnan’s hand again as the wagon bounced heavily on the rutted road, pulling a grunt of pain from the young man._

_From his seat at the front, Porthos looked back, mouthing a silent apology as he met the older man’s gaze. Athos gave a curt nod, understanding that his friends had no control over the roughness of their journey. That fact alone had made the older man question Aramis’ suggestion to depart, but the medic had assured him – had assured them all – that while uncomfortable, the trip posed no threat to the Gascon’s life. Besides, they all worried about overstaying their welcome and longed to return home. Thus, it was agreed._

“Welcome back,” Treville called from the balcony above the courtyard, relief flooding him as he observed the return of his four best men. As captain, he couldn’t play favorites, but there was no doubt these four men held a special place in his heart. Just knowing they’d returned made the garrison feel different, more _right_ , as if a missing piece had finally been replaced.

 

A closer look at the men revealed the weariness that seemed to ooze from every pore, and the fact that d’Artagnan, at least, rode in the back not because he wanted to but because he had to. “What are your injuries?” he called as Porthos began to climb carefully from the wagon. In the back, Athos was sitting on the edge of the cart, his body leaning to the left as he appeared to be favoring his right side.

 

Aramis held the horses’ reins as he replied, “A concussion for Porthos...”

 

He was interrupted a moment later as the large man added, “And Aramis.”

 

Throwing his friend an irritated look, the medic continued. “Athos has a partially healed wound in his leg, and d’Artagnan is dealing with a broken arm and ribs, plus a knife wound to one side.” At Treville’s raised eyebrow, Aramis nodded, answering the unspoken question about the Gascon’s health. _‘Yes, he was hurt badly, but would recover.’_

 

“Do you need help to the infirmary?” the captain asked, preparing to call men to assist.

 

This time it was Athos who answered, the protectiveness over the younger man clear in his tone and the stiff set of his shoulders. “No, we’ll manage.”

 

Treville needed a report from the older man, but he doubted he’d get any cooperation from his lieutenant tonight. “I’ll have Serge bring by some food…” He paused for a moment as he considered the men below him, Aramis now joining Porthos in the back to help d’Artagnan. “To d’Artagnan’s room?” he finished, receiving three nods in reply. Smiling softly, he nodded in return, leaving the men to deal with the Gascon while he arranged for food, drink and medical supplies to be delivered.

* * *

Two weeks later…

 

Athos took another sip of the fine brandy he’d been poured, his appreciation for the quality of the drink apparent in his serene expression.

 

Treville chuckled softly in amusement. “It’s good, isn’t it?” he asked, motioning towards the other man’s glass with his chin. “It’s one of the few indulgences I allow myself, thanks to the influence of an old friend.”

 

Athos’ interest was piqued. The captain seldom shared anything personal with the men, and anything connected to his past was a mystery. He quirked an eyebrow in question, leaving the decision to say more, or not, in his leader’s hands.

 

Treville’s expression softened into melancholy, and Athos immediately felt bad for his unspoken encouragement to say something more. As though reading his lieutenant’s mind, the captain raised a hand and said, “It’s fine. Just someone I hadn’t thought of in a while, but you should probably know at least part of the story.”

 

Sipping from his own glass, Treville fell into contemplative silence for nearly a minute, Athos sitting patiently as he waited for something more. “I grew up in Gascony as the son of a farmer,” he began. “When I left to find my fortunes in Paris, my closest friend stayed behind, having successfully pursued the hand of a beautiful and kind woman. Although I missed him dearly, I had many chances to return, as my early days as a soldier had me often in that area.”

 

Athos kept his face expressionless, trying not to react to what he was hearing. He’d heard rumours about Treville’s birthplace, but had never had them confirmed until now.

 

“They had a child together and spent many happy years together.” A fond smile appeared on the captain’s face as he confided, “They made me godfather; it was the proudest day of my life.” His features shifted again, this time reflecting sorrow rather than joy. “But God took her too soon, and at the age of only seven years, my godson lost his mother.” He paused to take a drink, savouring the amber liquid for a moment before swallowing.

 

“Things were difficult for them,” Treville continued. “My friend was devasted and had no idea how to support his young son who was grieving just as much as he was. He threw himself into the day-to-day work that comes with farming, leaving the boy to his own devices.” Casting his eyes downwards, he shook his head. “It is the one time I’ve regretted the life I chose.” Raising his eyes to Athos’ face, he saw the confusion there, and clarified. “If I’d been around, then perhaps what happened next could have avoided what happened next.”

 

The captain stopped speaking again, and it was apparent that the memory of what transpired still caused him pain. Again, Athos sipped at his drink and allowed the other man the time he needed to compose his thoughts and continue.

 

Sighing, Treville said, “The boy withdrew from the world and stopped talking for a time. No matter what Alexandre tried, Charles refused to utter a single word. Nothing, not a single sound, until he’d somehow managed to process the trauma of having lost his mother.”

 

The captain had locked gazes with Athos, his expression now full of resolve. “Do you understand, Athos?”

 

The former comte was at a loss, puzzled at the odd story his commander had chosen to share, yet fully aware of the intensity of the man’s stare. Remaining silent, he replayed in his mind what he’d just heard. _Treville’s friend was a farmer, who lost his wife. They’d had a son named Charles. The boy stopped speaking when his mother had died. The boy was named Charles!_

 

Suddenly, the pieces slipped into place, and his features turned to amazement as he confirmed his conclusion. “You are d’Artagnan’s godfather.”

 

Treville nodded slowly, grateful that his lieutenant was sharp enough to comprehend what he’d been told without having to state it directly. Still surprised by the captain’s revelations, Athos asked, “But why tell me?”

 

Holding his brandy glass with both hands, the captain leaned forward to rest his elbows on his desk, staring at the amber liquid rather than maintaining eye contact. “d’Artagnan has now twice stopped speaking in response to a trauma he’s suffered. As his de-facto commander and friend, I thought it important for you to know.”

 

It was Athos’ turn to slowly nod, recognizing the wisdom in the other man’s words. Uncertain what to say in response, he swallowed the last of his drink, placing the empty glass on the desk as he rose. “Thank you.”

 

Treville dipped his chin in reply, understanding the dual meaning behind his lieutenant’s reply. Tipping his glass, he emptied it and placed it next to Athos’ glass, rising and crossing the floor to the door with the other man. As Athos’ opened it, he followed the former comte out, both men invariably drawn to the balcony railing that overlooked the courtyard.

 

“There you are!” d’Artagnan called from below, his neck craned upwards to see the two men. “Come on, we’re going to be late.”

 

“I’ll be right down,” Athos replied with a slight smile.

 

“Aramis’ birthday?” Treville asked knowingly.

 

“Yes, apparently our delay in celebrating must be corrected tonight, and we’re meeting some of the others at the Castle and Rook,” Athos explained.

 

Chuckling, the captain tried not to dwell on the fact that he’d be dealing with a bunch of hungover Musketeers in the morning. “Go on, then. Best not to keep them waiting.”

 

With a nod, Athos left his commander’s side, descending the stairs to where the others waited for him. Pausing at the bottom he looked upwards and asked, “Would you like to join us?”

 

With another soft laugh, Treville shook his head. “No, I’m much too old for this type of celebrating.” As the Inseparables turned to move away, he called after them. “Have fun storming the castle!”

 

As one, the four men turned to give the captain a curious look, but he had no idea where the strange turn of phrase had come from. “Go on, and stay out of trouble,” he said instead of trying to explain, waving a hand at them in a shooing gesture.

 

He watched as they exited the courtyard, mumbling the odd words once more under his breath, “Have fun storming the castle. Must be going daft old man.” With that, he turned on his heel to return to his office, comfortable that everything was as it should be.

 

End.

* * *

**A/N:** The following line is from the movie, "The Princess Bride": _"Have fun storming the castle!"_

For those of you who are curious, the story prompts provided by AZGirl are as follows: 

  1. Focus on d'Artagnan and/or Athos
  2. Timing: Spring; Prefer pre-season 2, but I'm OK with pre-2.06 too.
  3. D'Artagnan is mute for a portion of the story
  4. Athos is presumed dead, and is separated from the others.
  5. Aramis's birthday, but the celebration is delayed for reason author chooses.
  6. Porthos is run ragged due to events of story.
  7. Captain Tréville knew d'Artagnan's father, and is d'Artagnan's godfather.
  8. At some point in the story, Athos is called Olivier and d'Artagnan is called Charles.
  9. Include a Musketeers adaptation of a scene from the movie version of The Princess Bride. Alternate option: include bits of dialogue from the PB movie in every chapter.
  10. The difficult one?... Take your pick, but include one of the following as a character: the ghost of Alexandre d'Artagnan, the ghost of Cardinal Richelieu, the ghost of Athos' brother, Thomas, and/or all of the above.



Bonus prompt: Porthos does a 17th century version of a MacGyverism.

Not sure how well I did, but I gave it my best shot.

 

Thanks to AZGirl for spotting and correcting my typos. Thanks also to everyone who made it this far, and to everyone who reviewed along the way. I'd love to hear your thoughts one last time if you're so inclined.


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